The Season Six Job
by Valawenel
Summary: A sequel to 'The Occam's Razor Job', following cca one week after. (Part two in The Texas Mountain Laurel Series). After all this shit TNT put us through, there was only one way to deal with it - see what The Team would do when faced with TV Network. No network presidents were harmed during the writing of this fic. No need to read TORJ first, all you need to know will be explained.
1. Chapter 1

**Well, here it is. I had something else in my mind for a sequel, but then TNT canceled Leverage, and it was enough... I'm still mad, and it'll last for some time :D All events in this fic (that show what ****fans ****have done to help) are actually true - I was a part of it. This fic is for them (and for you) - crazy, devoted people who are still fighting, voting, promoting, spreading the word, contacting all networks, buying books, and doing everything to find a way to continue Leverage.**

**You can join us on Facebook, Twitter, LiveJournal, Tumblr... just ask for direction :D  
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**If you want an instant note on new chapters posted, find me on Twitter as Valawenel, I'll tweet every new chapter. Many of above mentioned fans ( if you want to connect) are in my contacts, following and followers. Just ask :D Just, please don't ask in reviews signed in as a guest, I can't respond with message. Log in is just a few seconds.  
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**PS: Nope, the things that Nate&Co will do are NOT actually true, don't worry :D Though, they are... possible :D  
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**The Season Six Job**

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Florence McCoy turned off Skype at the last moment, deciding not to make call. She raised the bottle and took another sip of vodka, and giggled.

Jethro would be delighted if his wife called him completely drunk, slurring and babbling.

"Hi, darling, what's up?" she chirped at the blank screen. "Oh, nothing important. Just my show got canceled, I'm unemployed, I'm receiving serious threats, and my neighbor drug a dead body into his apartment. That was a few days ago, nothing smells in the corridor, so I guess he was very busy with an axe, a bathtub and some acid. Yep, just three meters from our door, darling. And, I bought a gun. Usual week. How's the weather in New Zealand?"

Orion mewed, demanding her attention, but she removed the cat from her working table, and pulled up the recording of her door camera, hidden in the ornaments around the peep hole. She had installed it when things started to get serious, when she finally figured out why her show didn't get a sixth season, in spite of the ratings. The corridor was empty, nothing was moving

She listened to the sound of the rain falling outside the closed windows, and wished Jethro was here. The evening of their second anniversary definitely wasn't a night to be spent alone, drunk and frightened.

"You know, an 11% drop in ratings is nothing. Nothing!" She waved the bottle at Orion whose eyes were wide and full of understanding. "They did every damn thing they could do to sabotage my show. You know what you have to do to achieve that? First, move the show's airing so people have no idea when the next episode is, because you, of course, don't promote it. Promoting the show during its airing is not promoting! And choose some lousy day in the middle of the week." Orion licked his paw and nodded. Of course he knew all that already, she thought, feeling a little guilty. "Second," she hissed. "You have to find a huge sporting event that airs at the same time, preferably the opening of the Olympic games if you have one handy… and lacking that, the most popular show that airs on a huge network with millions and millions, and _millions_ viewers. Make sure it's close to the season finale, too. Don't forget to split those pathetic fifteen episodes into two small seasons, to make sure everyone forgets about it when it comes back after hiatus. And those who remember, and wait for it, surprisingly, don't know when it airs because you. don't. fucking. promote. IT!" She stopped and stared into the cat's eyes. "No," she whispered. "It's not _them_. It's _him_."

Orion tilted his head.

"You don't understand it," she cried. "What am I supposed to tell to the fans? I was forced to write a polite explanation, and to _thank_ those sons of the bitches!"

Orion nodded once more, and then turned his head towards the door, and started sniffing.

"What? You can't be hungry, you ate just…" She stopped when the motion sensor on her screen started to blink. The grayish picture showed her killer neighbor, accompanied by a dark haired woman, leaving his apartment in a suspicious hurry. Orion mewed and rubbed his nose, and now Florence felt it too.

Oh. My. God.

It seemed that he hadn't gotten rid of the cadaver after all, it had rotted during those days just a few meters from her apartment… she gasped when nausea stirred the vodka in her belly. Traces of an awful smell had found their way under her door.

"Police…" she whispered, gulping. "We have to call the police."

Orion just looked at her; yes, she was drunk, and the police wouldn't come when a slurring, drunk woman started to babble about rotten corpses in a respectable building, and yes, she was also - _wait a minute_. She remembered that she had it recorded, the whole carrying the body sequence. Florence shivered when she remembered the blood on the corridor floor, and shivered once more when she recalled what had happen when the doors of the A2 apartment had closed; something that stunned her brain completely. Cora; the nice, young, always polite owner of McRory's bar in the basement, had showed up only minutes after, and had wiped up all the traces they'd left behind. Florence always suspected that her neighbor was doing something suspicious and illegal, but he simply couldn't have the _entire_ building in his gang.

"Unless he's mafia," she finished her though. "He works for the mafia, maybe as a lawyer or something like that, and Cora is being blackmailed, probably paying them for protection, or…" She grabbed a bunch of papers from the table and quickly put down a few notes for her next pilot – a brave TV writer, female and beautiful, happens to buy an apartment in the building owned by Mafia Killers Inc., but that only reminded her of her own troubles, her canceled show, and horde of angry and disappointed fans. With pitchforks.

"If Sherlock made it into the 21st century, Magnificent Seven in New York should have done even better," she said to Orion, feeling angry tears pouring down her face again. "Seven gorgeous guys, Orion, fighting for justice! Seven! How the hell it could possibly fail? Huh? Tell me!"

The awful odor was now stronger, and she tried to erase it with one more sip of vodka.

Fuck. She was frightened, she was lonely, her husband was in another hemisphere, and she was talking to the cat.

"I have to do something," she whispered.

If Orion nodded, she didn't see it, because right at the end of her statement the power went off, leaving them both in engulfing darkness.

"Meow?"

"Shhh." She listened to the soothing sound of the rain pouring down the windows; yet, she couldn't recall any thunder. The computer screen was radiating pale remains of light, and with that bluish light she got up, trying to find her cell phone. Oops… the damn room was dancing around her, and she had no idea where to find a lamp or matches.

She blindly walked to the hall, but the phone line was dead as well. What kind of unheard thunder could cut both the electricity and telephone line?

And only in her apartment, she realized when she saw a tiny spot of light – through the peep hole she could see that the lights in the corridor were still lit. Her mind was adjusted to writing crime stories, and in the one long, long second seven different scenes went through her mind… every one including Forensic party raiding all over the place. She almost giggled again when she recalled how many times she wrote casual dealing with dangerous intruders; in fact, all seven of her characters would deal with it in their own, unique way.

The little dot of light disappeared when a shadow stood in front of the peephole, blocking the light, and a soft cracking sound came from the door, as if claws were tapping on the wood. She stood there, frozen, while the thumping of her heart almost covered another, louder crack.

Florence was drunk, but she wasn't stupid; someone was breaking in, and if she didn't move, and hide, she was going to die here. She had bought a gun. It was still in the box from the store, unopened, probably in pieces that needed to be put together, somewhere in her bedroom, and she knew she should run there and try to find it. In pitch dark.

But she _couldn't_ move.

Her slow brain was swimming in vodka, her legs were completely dumb, and when the door gave way with the last cracking sound, she just gasped as blinding light hit her eyes.

She should scream, she thought, still holding the useless phone, squinting at the three men.

Two of them were on the door, both dressed in black, with faces covered by identical black masks; how cliché. Even the knives in their hands were…predictable. She thought of seven ways of disarming two armed attackers, and opened her mouth to start screaming.

No sound came. Right at the moment her lungs drew enough air for the scream that should alarm the entire building, she looked at the third man, and almost choked.

He was standing behind the first two.

He was dressed in light blue pajamas with elephants holding large daisies.

And she had seen his dead body being carried in apartment A2 just few days ago.

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"I'm going to kill him," Sophie repeated for the third time in four minutes, and Nate just sighed, trying to open the broken umbrella. They left the car by the park and went for a quick walk, to breathe.

"Don't bother," Sophie continued, speeding up. "Maybe the rain can wash out this, this… do you realize that that smell is still on our clothes? In my hair?!" She waved frantically. "I _am_ going to kill him."

"You asked for it," he said calmly. "After that crazy mix of vegetables and the cinnamon, that we _all_ had to eat, I must say, you could expect revenge."

"Now it's my fault, huh? Nate, Eliot is cooking bloody sheep _bowels_, for Christ's sake! I don't even know if that is supposed to be eaten. I'm not Bear Grylls!" She turned around and continued her quick pace down the street, and he sighed once more before he went after her.

Their plan was turning against them; their attempts to occupy Eliot with attacks on cooking in general, became a war in only a few days. And they were losing. Eliot was barely able to _walk_ to the kitchen, but if they thought that almost bleeding out from a gunshot wound would stop him from making their lives miserable, they were very, very wrong.

"Slow down," Nate said catching up with Sophie. He carefully checked the dark places in the street, just in case. Bonnano only yesterday gave them permission to leave the apartment, but even Patrick wasn't completely sure that the situation in town was calm enough for them to walk around freely. All the cartels that were pissed off were busy with their own problems, precisely _arranged_ problems, but the mess that had almost killed them all still had the power to ignite yet another fire.

And their hitter was barely able to breathe and stay upright after a ten step walk around the apartment; they were stuck in one place until he got better.

Nate started the countdown when he saw that Sophie had calmed down, and in just half a minute, she stopped and turned around. "Maybe we should go back." It was her turn to sigh now. "The sooner we open all the windows, the faster that smell will clear out… I'm sure he won't remember to do it, and every minute that passes that smell is sticking on everything. It will stay for days."

"Good idea," he smiled and nodded, but she knew him too well, and her eyes narrowed.

"No, I'm not worried that we left him alone," she murmured. "Betsy said he's doing great, much better than she expected, and she might be only a nurse, but I trust her judgment much more than I trust Doctor Sciortino. The same day he said he wouldn't be able to walk for days, Eliot was cooking that awful… what did he call it?"

"I don't remember. In fact, I refuse to remember. Okay, let's go back."

No, he didn't think she was worried about his wound and weakness; it wasn't worry at all. It was concentration that radiated from her all those days, visible only in small, hidden glances under her eyelashes. She was studying Eliot's every move, thought and word, keeping watch over him, waiting for the signs of recovery that had nothing with the bullet that almost killed him.

Of course Eliot was aware of the attention, and it only added one more thing to the list of things that were pissing him off, slowly, but inevitably turning him into a walking…okay, mainly laying down, ticking time bomb. After all, all that cooking mess wasn't in vain, it gave him something to do, something to occupy himself from thinking about all things that happen in that dreadful few days after Chileans attacked them. It kept the ghosts away… but the demons were always there, never leaving.

The ringing of his phone stopped his thinking, and he checked the display.

"Eliot," he said to Sophie. "If our luck holds, he wants us to buy something. Listening…"

No sound came from the other end of the line, and he waited a few seconds. "Eliot? Talk to me." Nothing.

The silence spread for a few more seconds, ending with the quiet, but very clear sound of a phone hitting the ground.

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There was something deeply disturbing about a walking corpse dressed in blue pajamas. Florence could understand being killed by black, hooded killers, but this… her death would be robbed of its last remaining dignity. Oh yes, she _was_ drunk.

Florence sighed, stopped swaying and raised both hands, preparing herself to flail all around in an attempt to avoid the knives, and hit the killers as many times as she could – she had written hundreds of fist fights, and they all looked convincing on screen. Theoretically, she was a damn expert on all sorts of fighting. Those guys had no idea what amount of accumulated knowledge was being prepared to be unleashed on their pitiful…

The third man quietly cleared his throat. "Excuse me." That caused the first two to quickly turn around, and Florence was very proud of her reasoning when she realized that the third man, who was, by the way, pretty good looking for a rotten corpse, _wasn't_ with them. She frowned, trying to forget that his choice of clothes should suggest the same at first glance. "I called the police," he continued and slowly raised his hand, showing them a cell phone. "They'll be here in a minute; patrols are always on this block. You have enough time to disappear – if you go _now_." The last word was said strangely low, sounding much more like order, than a suggestion, and his smile surely had nothing calming in it.

Florence rearranged her feet on the ground, and shook her arms, clenching her hands into fists again. That must have scared the hell out of the killers, because they took a step back and aside, now both of them back in the corridor, facing the third man. "You know, I'm an expert in all sorts of fighting," she blurted when they both, even more slowly, took one more step, increasing the distance between them. "They are going to attack you from two sides at the same time."

The third man… hell, it was stupid to call him that – _the corpse_ glanced at her with surprise in his eyes – wow, nice eyes - seemingly paying no attention to the two that were to the left and right of him. "Nah, they wouldn't," he drawled.

She squinted when they both lunged forward in a very coordinated, very dangerous move. They knew what they were doing, they'd done it many times, and she also knew what was going on…. the only one who obviously had no idea was their target. His smile was full of blissful ignorance.

He should have taken two quick steps to either side, to deal with the first one, giving himself time for the second, but the damn idiot just stood there watching them charging with the knives. Florence knew exactly what Ezra would do in this situation, and how quick Vin would be if attacked this way – but instead of her characters, she was stuck in deadly danger with a fucking _amateur_.

He just backed away from the first knife that swung in front of his neck – he didn't even rise his hands to block the hits – and he did something that looked like an attempt to step aside… but it was stopped when his foot collided with the second attacker's left ankle. Luckily for him, the pain distracted him for a second, and his knife missed as well.

"Cover yourself, you idiot!" she screamed when the first one threw his blade again. "Use your left hand as a… fuck!" Her scream must have scared the corpse, because he turned to her, leaving his side completely unprotected from attack, but the head of the first attacker – and she couldn't explain how – crushed into his elbow that just remained there, by happy chance.

She had no time to yell again, because the first one jumped in again, while the second one was staggering two steps back, and this time the killer's knee took a blow, causing a pained scream. He dropped the knife and bent over, in perfect position to be hit in the head with a knee.

Florence blinked for a moment, realizing that this man had just stopped the first simultaneous attack without using his hands, and without moving from his position – maybe he wasn't as amateurish as she thought. Or it was a beginner's luck.

Luck or not, it was fading fast – both killers were slower now, but they were still standing, and the second one threw himself into him, trying to knock him down, and stab him at the same time. With a move that was apparently slow, the corpse just removed himself from his path, catching his wrist on the downswing, and he did fucking _nothing_, he just directed his jump directly into the wall. The killer hit the wall nose first, and fell like he was dead. That probably saved the corpse's life, because the last one had to jump over his fallen comrade and it slowed the blow that hit the corpse in the stomach – a fist, not a knife, thank god… he didn't have time to pick it up from the floor. It must have been a nasty hit, because it almost knocked the corpse down, and the wall kept him from falling; he took three fast and heavy hits before he managed to block them. Florence couldn't see what he did, the attacker's back was blocking her sight, but it must have been a head hit, his hands were both down.

The rest of it went just like she would write it – the killer's staggering back and raising both hands to protect the head, which left his belly open for a raised knee, and final blow with a knee in the nose when he bent over.

Those two would stay down for a long, long time.

"You know, with a little training, you can make a career out of it," she said gleefully, peeking into the corridor. The corpse darted her an irate look; he was leaning on the wall with his back, and his breathing was labored, reminding her of the hits he took. "Are you hurt?" she glanced at his face – completely white now, fully appropriate for a dead man.

"Nope," he shook his head, but he didn't move, he just slowly put his left hand over his chest; the right one was still immobile. "Search them… take everything they have… IDs, phones, other weapons. Don't touch the knives."

Florence did what he said, squinting when nausea stirred with sudden movement, helped by the smell that was spreading all over the building from the half opened door of her neighbor's apartment. Though this one had helped her – and obviously he wasn't dead, so her theory about the mafia _killer_ fell apart – there still were many things to explain.

"No more weapons, no IDs, phones taken," she reported. "What now? You called the police?"

"No. I didn't know who they were. Go now… lock yourself in… they might have backup. Don't leave the apartment until we tell you."

"We?" She eyed him, taking one careful step closer. He definitely didn't look well, he was barely able to focus on her.

He pointed at his phone that was on the floor two steps away, and she quickly handed it to him.

"Just go." It was a ghost of a whisper now; he managed to hit the number, but it seemed that raising the hand with the phone was too much; or he was simply waiting until she left, to speak in private, so she sighed and headed for the door. She could hear a male voice from the phone – a calm response at first, but when no answer came, the voice tensed.

She turned around at the door. "Are you sure that-" She stopped when she saw his eyes; they were empty. He didn't hear her, just like he didn't hear the voice from the phone; he was watching it as if trying to remember what to do with it, and not succeeding. Florence went one small step closer when the phone slowly slid from his fingers and fell on the floor. He blinked once, slowly, still staring at his now empty hand, and before she made another step, his knees buckled and he crashed to the floor.

Well, _fuck_.

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	2. Chapter 2

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"Hardison."

"The late evening quest for fennel, _AKA if you bring me anise, I'll snap you in half_, ended successfully and we won't, I repeat, we won't continue it for another exotic thing – he can wait 'til tomorrow, thankyouverymuch!"

"Hardison, shut up and listen." Nate didn't have to yell, the hacker must have sensed the tension in his voice. "Go back, now. Let Parker drive, come here as fast as you can. You still have the motion sensors and cameras in and around the apartment?"

"Nope, I took them down three days ago, there was no need for them anymore – why? What happened?"

"Eliot just called me. He said nothing, he dropped the phone, and the line is still open – no sounds from the other side. We are a few minutes away from the building. Where are you?"

The hacker's response was covered by the screeching of tires and loud bangs, mixed with muffled curses, and Nate squinted, moving the phone – Sophie's – away from his ear.

"On the way to a quick death, that's where we are- SLOW DOWN! Fuck!" Something that sounded like broken glass cut off his words and transformed them into muffled, choked curses. "We are fifteen minutes away – you have no idea how hard is to find fennel – but we'll be there in five."

"Okay, just careful-"

"Careful, my ass – I'm trying to locate his phone to see if he's still in the building, but I can't fucking catch my tablet to do it! Look, Nate…" Hardison paused, and Nate wasn't sure if he was thinking, or fishing for his phone on Lucille's floor. "Maybe, maybe, I dunno, it doesn't mean trouble at all – what if he was in the kitchen with that awful thing, and accidentally turned the phone on?"

"Eliot would _accidentally_ turn on the phone?"

"Yep, I see your point," he sighed. "Okay, go now; I'll call if I find anything."

Nate cut the line and checked the time. Sophie was driving and, at the same time, listening to the silence on his phone with still opened line, and she shook her head in response – still no sounds, nothing that could tell them what happened.

They'd lost three minutes walking back to the car, and they had at least three more until they reached the building, so he spent them thinking about every possible trouble that could come their way as the outcome of the mess with the Chileans. Problem was, just counting all the gangs and cartels that were involved in that fuckup took most of that time, and he didn't even start to deal with the things that they might know, might use, and might want to avenge.

They used the back entrance and went to the second floor unnoticed.

Two unconscious men on the floor; Eliot's phone near the wall; half opened door of apartment A2.

No sounds. And no Eliot.

"Stay here," he whispered, stopping Sophie from going too near, and went into the apartment.

There was no sign of forced entry, the lock looked untouched, and at first glance he couldn't see anything different inside. Except, of course, that Eliot wasn't there as he should have been.

He ran upstairs to check the bedroom, though he wasn't sure if Eliot was able to climb the winding stairs; nothing. He returned even faster, checking the kitchen before he went into the hall again, not wanting to leave Sophie alone with those two for too long.

"He's not there, isn't he?" she asked calmly, and only a slight tremor in her voice betrayed her distress. "Any ideas?"

"He turned the stove off," Nate said, thinking. He checked both men, took their masks off, and observed the knives.

"Great, but I'm not asking about the smell! He couldn't leave on his own. Who took him? How can we find out- Nate, there's too many possibilities, and with his phone still here, how-"

"Shhhh," he smiled, noticing her voice getting higher and higher. "This doesn't make any sense. It's just-"

"What? They surprised him, attacked him, and took him away! At least we can assume he's still alive, or else he would be here with those…"

"Nope."

She gasped, and he quickly continued. "I mean, he wasn't surprised, attacked and taken, I wasn't referring to 'still alive' part." Nate circled around the fallen attackers. "He heard them in the hall, turned the stove off, and went to check. He wasn't _surprised_ and taken down, no… He opened the door – I can't say how the fight went, but remember, the line was open and there was no sound. He dealt with them _before_ he called me." Nate picked up Eliot's phone and ended the call, slowly looking at the details in the corridor. "If there were more of them, and they escaped, he wouldn't… no, he would, but he couldn't go after them, not after this fight. And he wouldn't leave his phone…" he trailed off and smiled, noticing barely visible abrasions on the door of apartment 2B. "Stay here and keep an eye on those two – not too close. Call me if they move, and wait for Parker and Hardison, don't let them make a noise."

"Where are you going?"

"Not far." He turned around and rang the doorbell on 2B.

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It took almost half a minute until his eyes got used to the darkness that surrounded him, but Eliot didn't move. A carpet beneath his face was soft and tickling, so he could move without any noise, yet he decided to wait until he was sure he would stay upright when he got up.

The buzzing in his head had calmed down, allowing him to hear the soft footsteps that quickly paced the length of the room, accompanied by barely audible murmuring.

"Whatnow-whatnow-whatnow…" The woman's shadow was just a darker shape in the darkness, but the street lights through blinds gave off enough light for walking – though not enough to find the thing she was frantically searching for.

He made no sound when he pushed himself off the carpet, and stood up, helping himself with a glass table near him, but he almost swore when the dizziness struck again. He wasn't worried because everything hurt – it was expected with any fast movement – but this weakness was way too much. He shouldn't be completely exhausted after a fight that usually wouldn't speed up his heartbeat. Now, even after lying down for few minutes, his pulse was still as fast as if he had sprinted ten miles, and his legs were shaking, just able to keep his weight.

He was a mess. He knew he was in bad shape, of course, but it took a fight to show him how much, precisely, he was ruined. The first hit he took right below the bandages almost knocked him out, pain paralyzing every reaction, and he couldn't remember the last time he was unable to move, allowing an opponent three more blows before he was able to breathe in again and act. If the killer had a knife…

_It wasn't fucking normal_. Only a few seconds of standing brought the buzzing back, and forced him to sit in the nearby chair to avoid collapsing again, and it was good he was becoming more and more pissed off with every second that passed, because it pushed a little more blood into his brain.

"Have you locked the door?" he asked the woman; he'd had enough of this shit.

"Hah!" The yell was accompanied by a swift turn, the distinctive sound of a safety clicking off – _Colt automatic, strange weapon for a woman_ – and her staggering over the glass table. Eliot squinted when she hit the floor, waiting for the bang that would follow, but no explosion came.

"Stay where you are." Her voice was muffled by the carpet, and he could almost see her gathering herself with her face stuck in it.

"Why?" he smiled.

"'Cause I said so."

"I should go and check those two in the corridor, and get my phone," he slowly explained. "I'm expecting friends to return, and it's not safe-"

"No. First, I want answers. Who are you, who is he, and what are you doing?" He saw her crawling away, unaware she was visible on slightly lighter carpet, to the chair opposite to his. "I ask, you answer," she continued when she sat. "Understood? I have the gun, I have no idea who you are, except you're suspicious. You might be one of them, sent to gain my trust."

"Seriously? The man who sent us gave us very strict orders: wait until the two of them successfully break in, but then stop them from killing her, because you'll gain her trust and _then_ kill her. Trust is extremely important, she mustn't be killed without trusting you first," he said solemnly. "And, if you forget to wear pajamas, everything will be ruined." He let a little smile creep into his voice, and soften it a bit. "Paranoia is great thing, darlin', but let's be real. Why do you think that your neighbor's visitor, who helped you with killers, is suspicious?"

"Because I saw you dead – okay, almost dead, being taken into that apartment – and I've always thought he's connected with shady business of some sort. Decent citizens do not catch bullets."

"Oh yes, they do." His eyes caught a movement in the back of the room – something small and white jumped up onto the working table. "Now, what have you done that brought two killers after you? Decent or shady business? Who are they and why did they try to kill you?"

Her hesitation was visible. She drew one long, deep breath, but then suddenly jumped on her feet. "Stay," she whispered and ran away, stumbling again over unseen obstacles.

He sighed, listening to the sounds of vomiting, then slowly got up again. He had no time for her questions, not before he secured the perimeter and made sure those two were alone.

Walking was harder than he thought, and he had to keep his hand on the wall for support to reach the hall. Cutting the power first, and probably telephone line, was screaming professional hit. "How long I was down?" he asked when the sounds from bathroom paused.

"Minute, two … I don't know. I drug you inside and searched for a cell phone."

The fight was one minute long, and with this conversation, less than five minutes had passed after they broke down the door. Enough time for-

"Stop!" she rushed from the bathroom, trying to locate him, waving the gun all around, and he could smell Vodka. Great, a scared, drunk woman with a gun, stumbling around him in the darkness. He rested his back on the wall, thinking about how to disarm her without seeing what he was doing, and without killing them both in the process. The safety was off, and if she pressed the trigger, she would spray bullets everywhere until she emptied it.

If he stayed silent, her panic would rise with every second – if he said something, so close, she could freak out immediately – the result might be the same. Even worse, if something else scared her-

_Right_. Exactly at that moment the door bell rang. _Perfect timing, Nate_.

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The doors weren't locked, weren't even closed completely, so Nate could clearly hear the quiet scream, then the slamming and falling from apartment 2B.

"I'm coming in!" he announced and pushed the door, keeping himself to the right, just in case, but when no response came he entered the dark hall, letting the light from the corridor in.

A small young woman, with short blond hair that glowed in the semi darkness was sitting on the floor, hugging an ancient-looking phone, staring confusedly at Eliot, who was standing by the wall. He had a gun in his hand.

"She hit me with that thing," he said, rubbing his forehead with his other hand, and Nate took that casual remark as a sign that there was no trouble in the rest of the apartment, at least not the one that needed immediate solving.

"What's going on, Mrs. McCoy?" Nate said, going closer, reaching with his hand to help her up, but she slid back from him.

"How do you know my -back off! I'm calling the police!" She raised the giant phone whose cord was pulled from the wall, and Nate nodded and smiled.

"That's a great idea. If you want, I'll call Captain Detective Bonnano; he's my friend and he'll be here in a matter of minutes. He's State Police." He noticed her slight slurring and teary, frightened eyes – she had to be calmed down first, before they even began to ask her complicated questions. "You don't have to talk to us, you can tell him everything."

"Nope." Eliot took one careful step closer, and Nate quickly assessed his posture; not good, not good at all. But at least he was still standing. "I have one question that can't wait." His tone was deadly serious, and the little pixie darted him a scared glance. "How much time passed between the power going off, and the first sound at your door?"

"Why?"

"Just answer," Eliot growled at the scared girl, and that was enough to double Nate's worry.

"Seconds. I got up to find my cell phone, then went to hall to call from this one, and they were in front…. fifteen seconds, I guess."

Nate watched Eliot's stiffening. "What?"

"The electric switchboard for the entire building is behind Mc'Rory's," he said, slowly turning around. And there was no chance they could turn off the power and just materialize here; Nate mentally finished his sentence; they had a third man who was now waiting, and asking himself why 's this taking them so long.

"Can you do it?" he asked.

"Nope," Eliot smiled. "But I'll have to. Wait here-"

"Nate," Sophie called from the hall, her voice switched up one octave. "Remember you told me to call you if they moved?" Eliot was already storming to the door after he heard her first word, but he stopped abruptly as if he slammed into glass.

"Stay here," Nate whispered to the girl and followed him.

One of the black-clad attackers was standing, holding Sophie and a knife on her throat, pushing the other one with his foot to wake him up. They were at least five meters away from Eliot – with that knife over her throat, even if he was completely healthy, he wouldn't have enough time to reach him and disarm him before he killed her.

For one second no one moved, all of them just stood frozen, staring at each other: the only movement he noticed out of a corner of his eye was pixie behind him, peeking through the door.

"Throw that gun down," the man whispered; the fear and anger in his voice were clear.

Nate said nothing; this was Eliot's playground and he had to trust him, but the hitter wasn't able to do anything. He averted his eyes from Sophie's and glanced at him. His worry became real fear when he saw his relaxed leaning on the wall with one shoulder – supporting himself to stay upright, weakness covered by a glint in his eyes and a lazy smile. He held the gun in his right hand and Nate knew he wasn't able to stretch his arm and aim.

"This one?" he asked; the gun was in his opened palm, he weighed it, not taking his eyes off the killer. Nate could clearly see the effort he put into hiding the shaking of his hand.

They needed a change in set positions and to switch priorities, and they needed it fast. "I've told you not to bring whores to the apartment," Nate hissed under his breath. "Who's gonna clean up after this, huh?" he darted a nasty glance to the killer. "If you kill her, take the body away."

"Hey!" There was clear indignation in Sophie's voice now. "How dare you! I'm a dancer!" her accent switched to nasal Russian in a second.

"Shut up!" Eliot growled. "You kill the bitch, go on. And what then? That knife didn't help you a few minutes ago, it ain't helping you now that's for sure." He took one small step forward and Nate held his breath. The killer kicked his fallen friend in the head, and he moaned and stirred.

"One more step and I'll cut her throat!" the man barked. "Drop the gun!"

"No, I have better idea," Eliot grinned. "Kill the whore. And I'll do this." He turned around and threw the gun into the pixie's hands. The girl caught it with an aghast sigh. "Let's see what the frightened, mad woman who you just tried to kill can do when armed."

The killer's eyes went wide as he stared at the girl, and Nate's heart almost skipped a beat; an automatic weapon in the hands of a hysterical woman… but then he came to his senses. Eliot would never increase the danger for Sophie. He remembered him weighing the gun. _It was empty_. Eliot was one more step closer now, and the killer didn't even notice him approaching in that short second while they all stood frozen. Just three more steps and he'd reach the one who was now on his knees, struggling to get up.

Sophie's eyelashes slowly went down, responding to some sign of Eliot's that Nate missed seeing, but whatever they were arranging, the hitter was still four meters away.

"People like you," a low, dark voice sounded through the hall, and Nate flinched, turning to the girl. She was standing upright, slowly raising the arm with the gun. Her eyes were cold and cruel. "Are the main reason I took so many shooting lessons. People like you," she continued with even more strength in her voice, "are the main reason why I'm able to shoot you right in your right eye. At four meters distance, I can choose if I want to hit your pupil or your eyelid. Put. The. Knife. Down." The last words were a low growl, and after just one look at her fierce eyes, the killer pushed Sophie towards Eliot and yanked the other one onto his feet. They ran a few steps and disappeared around the corner in the hall.

"Don't!" Nate stopped Eliot who went after them. "They'll get the third one and retreat, you can't catch up with them. Later."

Nate just glanced at Sophie before he turned to his neighbor; Sophie smiled and nodded, then went to Eliot, already quietly whispering.

"That was perfect, Mrs. McCoy." Nate said gently, carefully approaching her.

"You think?" Her eyes lost the fierce glaze, but she was still standing completely stiff. "I chose Chris's approach, he can be deadly persuasive, t-though I think light banter would do just as nice as this. I was actually considering using the entire dialogue from the season finale, but it was just recently aired, and what if he watched it and remembered it, then he would know I was just acting and he would- this…this was a version that didn't make into the final draft so I could use it with changes, it wasn't a knife, it was a gun…" she stopped to take some air, and at the moment her face went completely white, as if she finally realized that she could have been killed. Nate glanced toward the end of the hall; she wasn't the only one whose adrenalin was quickly draining out. Eliot was leaning on the wall with his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of distant footsteps. Sophie was standing beside him, in arm's reach, and Nate caught her light nod.

"We should get inside," he said. "Mrs. McCoy, you're coming with us until we decide what to do, okay?"

She dropped the gun and hugged herself, and he could almost swear he heard her teeth chattering, when she raised her eyes to the two newcomers and smiled with relief. "Mr. Hardison!" she exclaimed. "Thank God… we have a murder attempt here in the building. And a break in – my doors are ruined, and they cut off my power and phone line. These… gentlemen here helped me, though…" she bit her lip and hesitated.

Nate noticed Parker hiding a taser behind her back when she saw the unknown woman, and Hardison stood in midstep, uncertain what to do with the crowbar that he held.

"Oh, Mrs. McCoy, yes, right, that's why I'm here, yes, don't worry." The hacker glanced around and carefully poked Eliot with the crowbar. "You need this?"

"Don't tempt me," his reply was harsh and low, but Hardison just grinned at his glare, and pulled out of nowhere a green-looking bouquet. "Here is _Only an idiot can't tell a difference between anise and fennel, _also known as _It's a very distinctive smell_."

Nate just sighed when he saw her eyes glazing – her landlord had just confirmed himself to be a part of the suspicious gang, and in the next moment they could expect her to run back into her apartment and return with the bullets for her gun.

"Guys. Inside. Now," he ordered.

Surprisingly, Eliot was the first to move; he took the fennel from Hardison and went to the pixie, swaying dangerously as he stood before her.

"Good job," he whispered.

She almost smiled. "You knew I would do that, right? When you threw me the gun?"

"Nope. I thought you'd freak out and start screaming… and waving the gun…giving me time to get closer."

Nate took a step closer when he heard his voice fluttering on the last words; Eliot was looking two inches beside her, and he knew the hitter was standing with the last remains of his strength. He'd seen that look before, in front of Villacorta; unfocused, unable to penetrate the darkness that covered everything in front of him. He couldn't see her.

Nate hesitated a moment, knowing he could collapse any moment, and knowing even better that offering help would piss him off even more than going down.

"Everybody, get inside," he ordered and nudged Hardison and Parker in front of him, and Sophie took the girl with her, warming her with a smile. "Eliot, we won't wait 'til 3 a.m. here. Come on."

He waited a second, but Eliot caught the message and turned in the direction he gave him, towards the door.

Nate waited until he reached the door, and then checked the corridor once more, carefully taking the one remaining knife and the gun on the floor. He closed B2 as good as he could, and sighed in relief when he entered after them. And locked the door.

Damn, they weren't ready for this. Not yet.


	3. Chapter 3

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The dark haired woman wrapped her in a blanket and sat her on a sofa, leaving her alone while she went to prepare tea, but Florence resisted the urge to pull the blanket over her head and just drift away, no matter how drained and sick she felt.

She had been drug into the Mafia Lair – no, to be precise, it seemed that entire building was one huge mafia lair, and this apartment was a Queen's Nest. A King's Nest? Yes, definitely a King's Nest, she thought, watching their behavior.

The corpse made a beeline to one door in the large room, probably the bathroom, and he had been there since. Her honorable landlord, a young black man she came to know as polite and professional, always willing to help and very serious, now was nervously pacing the floor in front of the bathroom, occasionally stopping to listen, but not daring to knock or go inside.

The young blonde woman was scaring her; she perched herself on the stairs at the other end of the room, making her feel surrounded, and she just stared at her without moving. Every time Florence would glance at her, she would meet her narrowed eyes. Except for one time when she turned herself upside down, hanging from the stairs by her feet – but even then, her eyes never left her.

Her neighbor turned on the big screens in front of the sofa, and though the volume was low, she couldn't hear what he was talking about with the dark haired woman in the kitchen. She could hear his voice – dark, low and serious, and it sounded like they were arguing.

It took only a few minutes for the tea to be ready, and when the older woman brought her a cup, Florence knew the time for a rundown had came when she saw her quick, quizzical glance to her neighbor. He probably nodded and approved, because the woman sat beside her and smiled.

"My name is Sophie. This tea won't help you with a hangover, but at least you'll be hydrated."

"I'm not _that_ drunk," Florence whispered, remembering too late that she should act more drunk than she was, and try to draw some information from them. They would be much less cautious in front of an incoherent drunk.

"I know. But the fact that two men just tried to kill you is not helping, right? Relax, you're safe here."

Yeah, right. Safe. Florence could feel the narrowed eyes of the blond woman burning a hole into her skull. However, she took the cup and held it with both hands, warming her frozen fingers.

Mr. Hardison was now shaking his head. "No, no way. You go." He was talking to the kitchen. "Or better yet, call Betsy."

"Parker," her neighbor said only that, coming closer, and sat in the chair facing her. Florence flinched.

"No, man, don't do it, who knows what he might be doing, you can't send her in-" Hardison stopped when the blonde woman strode directly to the bathroom, without hesitation, grinning at him. "This ain't ending well, I tell you." He sighed and joined them few moments later, this time with a laptop. "Mrs. McCoy, this is Nate Ford… in case you haven't met before," he continued.

"Are you connected with criminal activities?" Florence asked immediately before she lost all her courage, and held her breath, watching the quick smile on her neighbor's face.

"Of all the questions you could ask, that one might be the hardest to answer honestly," he said slowly. "Let's say… we encounter criminal activities on a daily basis. Why?"

"I thought he was dead when you carried him in here," she nodded to the bathroom. "I thought you were the killer."

"Eliot was… caught in the middle of those confusing events all over Boston a few days ago. He was in the wrong place… at the wrong time," he said carefully. "Knowing how many dead and wounded there were that night, we can say he was lucky to be alive."

"He's okay, still standing. Just staring at the mirror." The blonde woman, _Parker_, came back unnoticed. "He said he'll join us in a minute."

"Hissing or growling?" Sophie said.

"Hissing."

"Not good." Sophie sighed and got up; Florence followed her with a glance, just then noticing a huge hospital bed behind her back. "Nate, don't let him sit and talk," she said arranging the pillows.

"I don't think he would try," he replied, and then turned to Florence again. "We thought about calling the police, but it's your decision. Unfortunately, there's nothing they can do now. The attackers had gloves, the knife they left is a plain, cheap one, and the only thing the police can investigate are the abrasions on your door. Do you _want_ to call them?"

"It's useless," she said quietly.

"This wasn't a burglary," Ford went on. "Why do they want you dead?"

What a simple question… she stared at him, not sure whether she was more scared of them, or the killers. "I have… incriminating data on one man, which proves his business decisions were intentionally directed for his own benefit, causing serious damage to the involved parties," she said cautiously.

He said nothing, and she noticed the inquiring glances the others threw to him.

"Well, that sounds as if the big bad guy screwed over the little people," Hardison murmured, typing something, breaking the sudden silence. Ford's mouth went into a thin line, and Florence knew she was missing some subtext here.

"They were interrupted," Ford went on, completely dismissing Hardison's words. "If retrieving that data, and killing you, is important to that man, they will try again. Do you have any place to go?"

"I don't know anybody here. My husband is in New Zealand… I can go to a hotel."

"Even in Boston, finding a woman who checked in alone, this late at night, wouldn't take more than ten minutes. The hotels are not safe, if they want to find you, they'll do it. You'll stay here tonight, and tomorrow we shall see what to do, okay?"

"Safe houses?" asked Sophie.

"Compromised. The Chileans did their research when preparing their ambushes, we can't risk it," he hesitated again. "We are not ready for this."

"We weren't ready for San Lorenzo, either," Hardison said. "Sometimes, the situation calls for impulsive acts. This one…"

Florence looked at them, just listening, thinking about how not to show her worries… staying here with these people was the last thing on her list. She half expected Cora to enter with a machine gun and state she had dealt with the intruders in the parking lot.

"We are not living here," Sophie said gently; obviously, her thoughts weren't so well hidden. "If you're uncomfortable staying here with only Nate and Eliot, I'll stay too."

Parker raised her hand in the air. "I know! Why don't we make an ambush in her apartment and wait for those two-"

"Are you out of your – yep, wrong question." The raspy voice from the bathroom door startled the blonde woman a little. "You don't _wait_ for killers, Parker. You avoid them."

"You're just jealous you can't go there and wait for them yourself."

The corpse, _Eliot_, slowly passed their sofa, going to the bed behind her back, without response, just with one nasty glance to the now smiling blonde.

Florence took one deep breath. "Who are you people?" she asked wearily. She didn't _remember_ falling through a rabbit hole, but everything was possible with cheap vodka.

"Leverage Consulting and Associates." Nate Ford was calmly stirring his tea. "We… consult for people with problems. Sometimes we help in solving them."

"And, you just accidentally own the entire building?" Florence turned to Hardison.

"Nope, I bought it when he came to live here. I had spare change at that moment. Can you tell me the name of that person, Mrs. McCoy?"

"Florence," she said without thinking. "He is… the C4 Network vice president, Michael Winslow." This was a bad idea, she thought; according to everything she saw, they could still work for the mafia… consulting, right. But the best way to find out more about them, was to play their game and silently observe. After all, she was out of here the first thing in the morning. She would take Orion and disappe… oh shit. "Orion," she said. "My cat is still in the apartment. If they return… I can't leave him, may I…"

"Parker." Nate Ford again said only that – the blonde woman was obviously his secretary with mind reading abilities. Florence sighed, clearing her mind; thinking about mutant vigilantes with superpowers that owned a mafia building was _not_ productive right now.

"Maybe I should-" she said right at the moment when loud meowing, growling, and hissing came from the corridor, and Parker appeared again with Orion squeezed under her elbow. Damn, that was fast, _she_ would have had trouble making him come and letting her take him. Parker marched to her and gave her the cat with both hands, and Florence resisted the urge to pinch her hand to see if she was an android. The frightened cat stared at the blonde in disbelief.

Parker disappeared again and returned with his toilet and a bag of food. Florence didn't miss the pretty discouraged look in Ford's eyes – he obviously wasn't used to pets. Well, he asked for it.

"It's late, and all the important things can be discussed in the morning." Ford got up and nodded to Hardison and Parker. "You two, go." Hardison, who had been typing since he said his last words, just nodded, typing even as he got up.

"Sophie will take care of the sleeping arrangements while you finish your tea," Ford continued. "Try to rest. You're safe here."

Somehow, Florence couldn't think about safety; she just hugged Orion and drifted away with an android mutant mafia gang pilot forming in her drowsy head.

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When Sophie tiptoed down the stairs, she half expected to find Nate still sleeping on the sofa, and Eliot awake and reading something. During the past few days, while she was here over the night, she didn't even once catch him sleeping. She even set the alarm twice in one night and went to check on him; he was watching TV. She wasn't surprised when she found him awake, but Nate at the table, with coffee, was cause for alarm. Hardison, this early in the morning, was another alarming sign.

The hacker was sitting in a chair next to Eliot's bed, with a headset. Eliot had a headset, too, and he was using one finger to slowly poke at the laptop that Hardison forced him to use instead of his phone, annoying the hell out of the hacker. Probably intentionally.

They were sulking, both of them, she realized when they just nodded to her and continued to glare into their screens.

"Morning. What they have done _now_?" she asked Nate.

"Talked. What else do you think they need to start a fight?" he murmured, putting away some papers he was looking at. "Hardison was enthusiastic about a new job. No. Hardison was enthusiastic. Period. And Eliot started to fume the moment he saw his smile when he entered. It took only four minutes 'til the explosion. I counted."

"They woke you up," she realized with a smile, noticing his slightly unfocused stare.

"Nope, Orion tried to cuddle. And it was over two hours ago."

He didn't just _try_, she thought, seeing the white fur all over his black shirt. She glanced around, finding the white cat perched on the shelf above Hardison and Eliot, controlling the entire room.

"So…" Sophie elbowed the table, propped her chin on her hands and smiled.

"No," he said firmly, but his mouth twitched into a smile, completely involuntarily.

"Why?"

"Too early."

"This one can be done without a hitter."

"I think last night proved you wrong," he pointed out. "Besides, do you want to hear what Eliot told Hardison when he said that to him? I must warn you, it was connected to a certain body par-"

"Not… exactly," she frowned. "So, you will do nothing to help her?

"I didn't say that. I'm trying to find a way to get a job done, without _doing_ the job."

She glanced at the other end of the room and lowered her voice, pretty sure that both headsets were off. "You think you can mask the job into… solving this without doing anything, and that he'll just say: That's great, do continue, I'll just sit and watch you trying?"

"There are two reasons to do this – the first, we can't let her be killed, right? The second, keeping him occupied with something more than cooking will be useful. On the other hand, it's extremely stupid to do anything so shortly after all this cartel mess, particularly not something that might draw attention to us again. So I called Bonnano. He left just minutes before you came down," he pointed at the papers and she took them… Eliot's and Florence's statements, already signed. "There was no need to wake her up, it's just a formality. I thought over all that police stuff – this attack had to be recorded."

"And Eliot said what?" she asked.

He sighed. "He… agreed, sort of… that simply collecting evidence might not prove too dangerous. If we keep our part to mainly helping the police with a different point of view, and eventually Hardison doing some hacking."

"You think the police can solve this before they try again?"

"No. Patrick said it's too thin. Hardison caught both attackers on two street cameras on the block, without masks, but there's no way to prove that it was those two, and not two wandering guys wearing black. Beside that, the images were too poor for facial recognition."

"We all saw their faces."

"And they saw ours, Sophie."

"So why involve the police?" she asked, confused.

"Because this is nothing, but it might be something when added to something else."

"Nothing and something and something makes…?"

"A case," he smiled. "We can't prove even they were sent to kill her, and not to rob her, much less connect them to that Winslow guy. I said, _prove_. Patrick needs a solid case to press charges and get the warrant."

"Bloody hell," she smiled. "We're not doing a job… we are doing an investigation."

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"Dig deeper. There must be something else." Ford's voice was the first thing Florence heard when she exited the bedroom and prepared herself to climb down the stairs; she wasn't expecting to hear all of them, again, so early in the morning.

"Hold up, man, my little web crawlers aren't that damn fast. Flawless, yes, but fast they ain't. If you rush them they get nervous and-"

"Hardison…"

"Yeah, I hear ya'. I have one funny thing… this guy screwed Spielberg once. Last millennium business, they were all still working from the garage, I guess, they had glasses like nerds and funny hai-"

"Spielberg…you mean Steven Spielberg? Anything we can use?"

"It's ancient history, over thirty years ago, so I don't think it's releva- you know, morning grumpiness isn't _that _cute!"

Hardison's voice wasn't at all like she was used to hearing him, just like Sophie's went from slightly British to Russian in less than a second the previous night in the corridor; Florence sighed realizing she was in the hands of professional conmen. God knew she wrote numerous conmen, all bad guys that were dealt with efficiently, and justice was always served. But, these saved her life and offered her shelter for the night. She couldn't think of anything they might want from her in return.

"Meow?"

"Parker, that ball was for the cat, bring it back." Eliot's voice sounded irritated.

"He was slow."

"Meow?"

"You're a cat, you're supposed to be faster than humans. It's not my fault-"

"Parker!"

That decided it; Florence took one deep breath, and climbed down the stairs.

"Good morning," she murmured, watching Orion and Parker chasing one of the dozens tin foil balls that were scattered all over the giant room. Orion looked like he was in a cat's heaven – someone was playing _with_ him, actively.

She nodded at their greetings and stood frozen, suddenly realizing what was on one of the huge screens – her carefully hidden data, a short video clip of Michael Winslow talking about money he took for pushing three other shows and canceling hers. Hardison was standing in front of the screens and doing something on his tablet, paying no attention to the race around him.

"How?" she stuttered.

Hardison smiled – a broad, lazy smile. "Orion? Seriously? Everybody knows what Orion's belt is, Florence, The Men in Black are canon." He held up a tiny USB drive that was, until this morning, safe on the necklace around Orion's neck, and she sighed again.

"And what more are you digging for, isn't it enough?"

"Hardison is doing a thorough background search," Ford explained, hitting one ball while going back to the dining table. "Join us. Coffee and breakfast."

Florence glanced at the bed and Eliot covered with the tin foil; he was making the balls while seemingly looking okay; yet, Florence couldn't not think that his condition must have been more serious than it looked like. He didn't make any attempt to stand up, and knowing men, only dying could keep them in bed. She noticed the oxygen mask on the bed near his hand, attached to a small cylinder, and not for the first time she asked herself how much, exactly, that man had risked when he faced the two attackers.

She sent him a grateful smile; it was nice of him to keep Orion occupied… yet, when she looked again at the blonde who seemed to enjoy playing with the cat much more than the cat did, she suddenly wasn't sure whom he was trying to occupy.

"You will research me, too?" she asked Ford when she sat at the table, and Sophie poured her coffee.

"Already done it," Hardison said cheerfully. "I did a background check when you bought the apartment last year, and the fact you were away for months while shooting was the main thing, not the price you offered."

"So no curious neighbor could stick her nose in your suspicious activities?" she smiled back.

"Con–sul-ting," he repeated. "We are a respectable-" he stopped, grimaced, and bent over in a loud sneeze. "I think I might be allergic to your-"

"Hardison." Nate sighed.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm on it." He turned his back to them and concentrated on the big screens again, every one displaying different data now.

"Tell us what's happening," Sophie said just that, with a small, gentle smile, and Florence felt stunned by the urge to trust them, to tell the beautiful, warm woman everything what troubled her – but she held back. The magic that radiated from Sophie was a professional one, directed to gain her trust. Yet, what choice did she have? They already knew too much.

"I'm an author, a writer and co-producer of C4's TV show The Magnificent Seven: The Next Generation," she said slowly. "Just like Sherlock – you take characters and put them in present time. In New York."

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with…I mean, I've never heard of it before."

"No wonder you haven't heard of M7, because it's just a small show on a cable network that many people don't know even exists… But you've heard about NCIS on CBS, right? The entire country watches CBS." She waited until Sophie nodded, then continued. "The last episode of NCIS had 20 million viewers… but the season finale of my show had 3.4 million viewers."

"For C4, those are great numbers," Hardison said.

She darted him a grateful look. "Yet, as you've already seen, the show that Michael Winslow mentioned in the recording, is M7. I'm waiting for an official, public statement about the cancellation."

Ford leaned forward a little in his chair. "I listened to the recording several times, and I'm afraid there isn't sufficient proof that he is talking about an _illegal_ replacement of your show. His words, and any lawyer would be happy to prove it, can be understood as a common financial profit from those three new shows, not for him, but for a company."

"I know. That's why I didn't take it to the police immediately when Charlie brought it to me. They didn't know he was still on the set with his camera on." She lowered her eyes to her cup. "Maybe he would still be alive if I did," she finished, feeling her voice beginning to waver. "He made a mistake, he let them know he recorded them – the next day he was killed by robbers in his home. When they didn't find the recording, they knew I got it." She raised her eyes to see what impact her words left, but she met two calm and thoughtful pairs of eyes.

"It might have been a coincidence, if there wasn't those two after you the last night," Ford said slowly. "What else do you have?"

"I created a fake e-mail account under Winslow's name, went to his office while they were in a meeting, and called the secretaries of the production companies of the new shows, all three of them. I told them to send the last five e-mail conversations to that e-mail address because someone hacked his account."

"Oh, you were grifting, dear," Sophie smiled.

" Yes. I wrote… and killed… many grifters," she smiled back. "They are the favorite bad guys for my seven heroes."

"How fascinating." Sophie's smile was sparked with real delight now.

"I found those e-mails on the USB," Hardison jumped in. "But, there's nothing incriminating, as far as I could see."

"Pull up the third, the last sent e-mail from LiveSurvival." Florence turned around in her chair. "See that small paragraph about acquiring the ownership rights? Don't forget, it's the television industry – they don't exchange the bags full of money in back alleys. Michael Winslow is the head of programming at C4 and the Board of Directors trust his judgment. If he says that launching one more reality show will bring money, they'll go for it. After the transfer deed, he'll have a percentage of all the merchandise, every DVD that LiveSurvival sells. We are talking about millions. That crap is more popular than NCIS, I can assure you."

"So," Ford tented his fingers, still watching her. "Let's put aside the killing of your cameraman… how can you prove your show, with 3 million, would get the next season? Replacing it with something that brings 20 million viewers sounds like a good move."

"It surely does," she said bitterly. "He won't have problems persuading the Board of Directors, especially because the average season ratings dropped 11%. This has been long planned, Mr. Ford. He's been sabotaging M7 for months. He changed airing times and days, canceled all the promoting, put my episodes on at the same time when other hit shows were being aired, promos were terrible… have you seen the promo for season Five? Seven heads in vintage frames, on a dirty yellow background? When the fans saw that…Jesus, they were pissed. Every teenager with Photoshop could make a masterpiece. Fans did the job for C4 – promoting, voting, spreading the word, they were busy the entire year. If C4 did their job, the ratings would go up. He did everything he could to lower my ratings, so he could use the lower ratings as a cause for the cancellation." She took a deep breath, trying to calm down, but it was useless. "I have so many more stories to tell," she continued quieter. "The show isn't dead. The fan base is growing, and you can trust me, I've never seen such a dedicated bunch of people. I can't let them down. And the most important thing, I can't let down my crew. For five years, the show fed many families –five years we were building something great, something that… made a difference. Fans are very selective, you can't keep them if you don't deliver what they need. I gave them justice. We, all of us, gave them the justice, someone who fought against the bad guys. M7 novels are in the Top Ten on Amazon, people want more. It's alive. Canceling it now, it's…it's like murdering a live being. I can't let them do it." Florence bit her lip, feeling the tears gathering in her eyes, pissed off because of that weakness… she _wouldn't_ cry in front of them. But Ford said nothing when she finished, he just nodded to Hardison and poured her more coffee.

She waited until her voice was strong again, and continued. "PVA – People's Voice Awards… it might save the show, if we win The Best Cable Drama. But we have no chance, we are against The Walking Dead-" Hardison's squeak interrupted her words. "What?"

He shook his head. "If you had about 3 million viewers in the US… The Walking Dead has that many viewers in just New York. The entire world watches The Walking Dead…. nope, you don't have a chance. You know that those 3 millions make only 300 – 1000 people who actually care, vote, promote and raise attention?"

"I know all that," she gritted her teeth. "But the fans don't. They are still striving, voting for hours, they are doing everything possible. They've organized in Facebook groups, on Live Journal, on Twitter, Tumblr – they tweet everything they do so I know."

"Ah, fandoms…" Hardison's voice went soft, as if touched by pleasant memories.

"Florence." Ford's voice brought her back, he looked very serious. "You _do_ realize that you spent one minute on your own murder attempt, and all the rest on how important it is to save your show?"

She blinked, stunned, then glanced back over her shoulder to Hardison. He understood, she knew that when she saw his smile.

"It's connected…" she begun, thinking. "If he can be stopped, if there's enough evidence to accuse him of Charlie's death, it will automatically stop all his actions against M7, and make all his decisions irrelevant. And, ah, yes, I will live," she added watching Ford's eyebrows going up.

Ford played with his cup for a few seconds, then sighed. "Okay. Do you _want _us to help you?"

Oh, she knew that wasn't being said lightly.

_Consulting my ass… _she had no idea who these people were. One was shot, they were strange, her landlord wasn't… her landlord, her neighbor wasn't a man from who she might ask for some sugar in the middle of the night, this woman was dangerous as hell, and that blonde was an android psychopath…

Yet, she was here with them, alive, saved… and feeling safe. That was the most amazing part. She didn't trust them to be some consulting agency, they were probably criminals… but she _knew_ they would do no harm. _Great, the famous last words of a known TV writer, after her body parts were found in her neighbor's bathtub – the best parts used for lunch_. _With fennel._ She suppressed a giggle and tried to straighten her face, watching Ford's face becoming slightly surprised at her reaction.

"If you can help me, I would be very grateful," she said solemnly. "Do we need a contract? What do you want in return? My firstborn-" she covered her mouth, but too late, the giggle escaped. "I'm sorry. I'm just… very bad in staying serious when the going gets tough. Maybe I should write black comedies instead."

"What do we want in return?" Ford thought for a second, then smiled. "Let's just say, we are selfishly helping you because we are scared of more killers in our peaceful corridor."

"You know, I can…" Hardison sounded as if he was hesitating for a second. "That PVA voting, you know… if it proves necessary I can, I might… there are ways to…"

"Not now, Hardison." Ford stopped his words. "Later, maybe, I'll keep that in mind."

"And what now?" Florence asked when nobody moved.

"Nothing," Sophie smiled. "We'll finish the coffee, you'll go to your apartment and take everything you need for a few days, and then we'll talk again. We are already working, don't worry, though it seems... and what the hell do you think you're doing?" Sophie's sudden turn was addressed to Eliot, who was standing two steps from them – those people really all walked without any noise. "You're aware that Betsy will come soon, and you have to look normal and as if nothing happened?"

"Potatoes. Peeling. Cutting bacon. Chopping the fennel. It's called lunch. I can deal with Betsy."

"Yes, of course you can. That'll be the day-" Sophie gasped. "You're going to cook that horrible stinky-"

"It won't smell now, the worst part is over," he said, moving behind the kitchen counter. He was stable and straight, but his every move seemed to be thought out before he made it. Florence caught one quick exchange of even glances between Sophie and Ford, but no one offered to help the only one who wasn't in shape to peel potatoes for six people. There was something in their covert, silent worry that was telling stories definitely worth exploring… but not now.

"Hardison, set up the cameras and the motion sensors in the corridor," Eliot continued. "And when she goes to collect her stuff, I'm going with her."

"Ha!" Parker's voice from somewhere behind her, surprisingly, made her shudder. "Stupid."

"Already on it," Hardison said. "Though, if these two return again, we can freely send Parker to deal with them."

Eliot stopped whatever he was doing, sending Hardison an irritated look. "Those two have killed before, and not with a knife. They used the knives to make it look like a burglary gone bad, that's why they were so reluctant and clumsy while fighting, their minds were set on drawing the guns instead. And don't be fooled by their retreat – tactically, they did everything impeccably."

"What?" Sophie asked. "You beat them, they were held hostage, scared, threatened in vain and ran away when you gave the gun to a woman?"

"Precisely," he waited, but she just shook her head, so he continued. "I would've done the same, and they passed the test. Only a trained professional knows how dangerous amateurs can be, an ignorant would think he could deal with her. The one who held you assessed his every decision, trying a few approaches, taking the correct time to value efficacy, immediately going to the next one. Their retreat was not fleeing. It was just a necessary step. We'll see them again. With the guns. And I do hope their companions are not of same training and skill."

"Do you want good news, or the bad news first?" Hardison used a little pause at the end of his speech. When they all turned to him, he pointed to the screens, and a group of people in dark green uniforms in front of a large building. "Meet Dvorak Security. This is the only picture that shows the employees, and note how the emphasis is on the building, the faces are too distant and too low quality to be recognized."

"The dark green uniforms are the security for our sets and shooting locations, and C4's main building," said Florence. "We never had any incidents with them, in fact, they are excellent and professional, very nice… you don't say that those two were…"

"And now, bad news." Hardison grinned and pulled up one image from her recording that clearly showed Winslow and a man with whom he was talking. He cleared the image and displayed results: Robert Knudsen, CEO of Dvorak Security. "This is interesting… Eliot, will you stop chopping that green thing for a second?"

"_Fennel_. Why?" The sounds didn't stop.

"I don't want you to cut yourself." Hardison's grin vanished. "In spite of the Scandinavian name, this man is Don Lazzara's loving nephew."

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	4. Chapter 4

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Well, Don Lazzara's name silenced the quick chopping sounds. Florence glanced at the kitchen. Eliot was just standing there, caught in the middle of the unfinished move. For a few seconds the silence was so thick that she had to clear her throat to break it.

Sophie was suddenly studying her cup and Parker came from somewhere behind her and sat at the table, glancing at Sophie and Ford in turns. Ford and Eliot… well, they were obviously involved in a very intense silent conversation, according to the steadiness of their stares. She had no idea what conclusion they made, but it ended with Eliot thrusting the knife into the kitchen counter. It vibrated, adding a very musical background to his mad eyes.

She knew who Don Lazzara was, of course, his name was often mentioned in certain circles. Suspected to be the head of Boston, and not only the Boston Mob, elegant, nice, polite, always smiling Don Lazzara… she completely understood why they would hesitate to even go near him. Yet, they showed no worry or fear, just frustration.

"The connections _can_ be avoided," Ford's voice was very carefully modulated.

"Right," Eliot's answer came harsh. "What part of 'keeping a low profile' you did not understand?"

"What part of 'only providing evidence' did _you_ not understand?"

Florence cleared her throat again. "You don't have to…" she started but went silent when both of them turned to her. It wasn't about her, she realized. It wasn't about _this_ job. They clearly had met Don Lazzara before, and yet they weren't scared… she blinked once, remembering the mess a few days ago, when Boston was a war zone, when citizens were warned to stay in their houses during the night, when every single gang and cartel in town was on the streets, killing each other… including the Italians. They were all _involved_ in that, and Eliot wasn't just caught in the wrong place by accident.

"It's okay, Florence," Ford said calmly. "Eliot is just worried because of the security and risks involved, that's all. He makes this show every time we plan something."

"Of course." In spite of all Eliot's effort, his smile looked a little forced. "It's the just usual…" he glanced at others and sighed. "… never mind," he finished with a low growl.

Curiosity prodded her, mulling on their words, but she just dulled her face and smiled.

"Why do you have three phones?" Parker asked her, watching her with her head tilted a little. That girl had _very_ intense eyes.

Florence just blinked, having no idea of what she was talking about, or how she would know what she had in her pockets, being across the table… and then it dawned on her. She had collected two phones from the fallen attackers last night, the only thing they had with them. "How did you…" she stopped pulling them out, remembering about prints too late. "I forgot about this," she said to Eliot. "When you said to search them, they only had the phones."

"And _you_ forgot that we have their phones?" Hardison quickly came and snatched them from her hand.

"I kinda missed very large parts of what was happening after the fight." Eliot's answer was acrid, but Hardison just huffed and went back with his treasure.

"You have your show here? On DVDs or copies?" Ford's calm voice silenced all. "We'll have to watch it."

"Yes, the official DVDs of all five seasons. Why? It won't tell you anything about Michael Winslow," Florence said, and at the moment Ford smiled, she knew he didn't need an insight in _Winslow's_ brain and way of thinking.

Just great. She reminded herself to show them all the episodes that dealt with various grifters and conmen, to show them what she was capable of… just in case.

"Let's see what we have here for now," Ford continued. "One recording that can't be used because it's not clear enough that Winslow was preparing something illegal. One murder that looked like a robbery. One murder attempt that still might be a plain robbery. Five e-mails, stolen from Winslow, which can't be used as evidence, and which also don't say anything very incriminating. One knife without prints. Two phones-"

"With nothing. Burners," Hardison interrupted. "The last call from one of them goes to some another burner, untraceable."

"Two phones, with nothing," Ford repeated. "And, we have one writer with a wild imagination, versed in crime stories," he finished.

Florence almost fell on that. _Almost_. The rage boiled in a second, but then she met his calm eyes that were pinning her, and she smiled. "This plot, Mr. Ford," she said slowly. "Would make one lousy episode. Give me some credit. If I made this up, trust me, I would come up with a plot for a season fucking finale, not this…this…inconclusive crap."

She returned his gaze without blinking.

"Call me Nate," he smiled finally. "More coffee?"

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Though Sophie said they were already working on her case, Florence had serious doubts about it. Ford was reading the newspaper, Parker was doing something with three sheaves and ropes, and Sophie was sitting at the kitchen counter, watching over the potatoes that were boiling on the stove. Eliot returned to the bed, and maybe he was the reason they were so silent, because he kept his eyes closed, though she suspected he was sleeping. Hardison was the only one occupied with the things connected to her case, but his screens tilted too fast for her, she couldn't catch anything recognizable.

She was carefully munching cereal, preparing herself for that hideous lunch, knowing that her stomach still suffered the vodka from the last night. At least the headache wasn't terrible.

She was grateful for this time of peace; having been left alone, she could think about all this. About them.

"Where's Parker?" Eliot suddenly asked, not opening his eyes. Everybody turned around, but the blonde wasn't in sight. Florence could swear she saw her with the ropes only fifteen seconds ago.

"Maybe she went upstairs…" Sophie started reluctantly.

"The hell she did," he cursed under his breath and slowly sat up in the bed. "Hardison, the corridor cameras."

One screen immediately blinked with a pretty good recording of the well known corridor, showing Parker who was filling bags, going in and out of apartment B2. Florence didn't know what to say, and what to think about the unknown girl rummaging through her closets. Before she could react in any way, Parker entered, carrying four bags. Eliot was already near the door, and she didn't notice him getting up, or hear him walking. Again.

"Move out the way," Parker said shortly. "Or hold the door, I have two more in the corridor."

"Of all stupid things, Parker-"

She dropped the bags in front of Eliot and frowned. "Stupid? I came in here and took Old Nate from the wall, _while_ four Chileans were watching the game on the screens, right there, waiting for-" she stopped, looked Florence directly into the eyes, and decided not to finish. "And I did it four times! The two guys with guns wouldn't notice me if they returned, you idiot! But they would surely notice you, and her!"

"That was kind of the point." He sounded beyond irritated. Florence could bet that more irritation in someone's voice wasn't humanly possible.

"Well, I missed that point. Going next door for few things is the job for…" another glance in her direction "… someone like me. Not for someone like you – and if you want to argue about the risks of the situation, and pull the 'listen to the professional judgment' card, well this time you just heard one, very professional. Okay?"

Florence had no idea what to think about this, so she checked the others; Hardison's eyes were wide open, Nate's eyebrows were up, and Sophie was biting back a smile… obviously this wasn't something usual. Even Eliot just stood there and stared at Parker, having nothing to say.

The blonde went a step closer and poked him mercilessly, her eyes even more narrowed. "If you want to spend accumulated energy, buy yourself a stress ball, instead of going after the guys with _guns_, just to do something."

"Don't push your luck too far, Parker." His voice was low now, very low and deadly quiet, but it seemed to have no impact on her.

"You're the one who said they knew what they were doing, and that they'll return with the guns this time. My level of… of… expertise… can deal with them. Yours. Can't. Now. The key word is avoid, not fight."

The soft clicking of high heels was the only sound that broke the sudden silence; Sophie went closer and just stood there, one step away from them while they darted murderous stares at each other. Florence watched, fascinated – Sophie did absolutely nothing, she just _was_ there, watching them with a smile, and that was enough to soften their postures. The silence spread for ten more seconds, and Eliot was the first to break it.

"Move," he motioned to the door, his voice still low but much softer. He followed Parker to the corridor and waited at the door until she brought in everything she collected. Florence didn't miss Hardison's frantic search through the various cameras, in the building and in the streets that surrounded it.

"What if they were alone?" she asked Hardison quietly.

Hardison squinted, as if he remembered something unpleasant. "The last time they were alone, a few days ago… it didn't end well." He paused, but when she waited for more, he sighed and went on. "They both had guns," he explained quickly and turned away from her to the screens.

Hah, maybe the android shot him, and not some random dude on the street, Florence thought while plucking through the bags to see what Parker had retrieved. The DVD boxes were stuck in along with her dresses and boots. Jesus, she put her laptop with her underwear.

"Uh-oh," said Hardison and they all looked at him. "Eliot. Bed. Now." He quickly turned off all the data he was watching, and put cartoons on all of the screens. "Florence, listen carefully - we are _not_ doing any job, and you're here just for coffee, a visiting neighbor. Okay? Parker, hide her bags. ETA, one minute."

"And hide cat's toilet," Nate said, folding the newspapers.

Florence watched them, confused. Sophie hurried to Eliot who sat in the bed, removing the pieces of tin foil, eyeing him critically. "You look completely normal," she said. "You don't have to worry – just smile and speak as always. I'm sure she wouldn't notice anything unusual, nothing is bleeding, there're no traces of anything."

"Wanna bet?" he asked.

Sophie stood quiet for a few seconds. "No," she said finally, and straightened his blanket before she returned to the table. Hardison and Parker were already sitting with the cups and Florence joined them.

Nate, slowly, went to open the door when the door bell rang.

Florence didn't expect a slender, middle-aged black woman – from the introduction she half expected an axe murderer with thirty tattoos.

"Who is she?" she whispered to Hardison.

"Eliot's nurse," Hardison whispered back. "Act natural, and avoid eye contact."

Florence watched her approaching – all of them were still, not moving, just smiling and looking content and relaxed at their morning coffee, even Parker.

"Morning, Betsy," Sophie smiled. "Coffee first?"

"Maybe later, I had one already." The woman put her purse and shopping bag with groceries on an empty chair, and Nate helped her with her jacket.

"This is our neighbor, Florence McCoy," he explained. "She is… erm, familiar with the outcome of last week's trouble. With the basics only, to be precise."

Florence shook hands with Betsy, exchanging smiles, wondering why they were all tensed – the woman had beautiful, tender eyes, soft and warm like velvet. And her smile was gentle and even warmer.

"You are all in a pretty good mood this morning," Betsy smiled, watching them, glancing at Eliot. "Are you putting weed in their food?"

"Not yet," he smiled back. "They are just trying to look normal in front of another human being. You received the duck I sent you?"

"Yes, thank you, now I have five and I put them by the pond…" Betsy quietly paused and tilted her head a little, watching him. Florence felt Hardison stiffing, and the smile on Sophie's face became frozen. "Changing the subject even before we had any subject to change, Eliot?" she continued.

"What subject?" he blinked, with genuine surprise.

Her eyes were pinning Eliot, who didn't move, didn't change his smile, who did nothing at all – and yet Florence felt the desperation like a cloud all around him.

Betsy watched him for five seconds, then she turned to them again, assessing their smiles. Only Florence smiled cheerfully; the phrase 'blissful ignorance' once again came to her mind.

Betsy said nothing more, she just went closer to Eliot, and circled around the bed like a vulture observing her half dead prey. Eliot rolled his eyes but said nothing.

"How are you feeling this morning?" she purred when she stopped, facing him again.

"A little better than yesterday."

"Is that so?" Betsy shook her head. "Let's see… you have one more pillow behind your back, because it's too exhausting to keep your weight up without help. It wasn't necessary yesterday, but today you're too weak to sit up by yourself. You're completely stiff and you're breathing one third shallower than yesterday, because it hurts. And you're not able to stretch your back completely, your right shoulder is two inches lower and your head tilted to the right, what means you're unknowingly protecting a wound that also, what a surprise, hurts. The oxygen mask was used, and you haven't needed it for the last three days. Further, your right hand is casually resting on the blanket, completely relaxed and with your palm up – a pathetic try to cover up misuse; you did that exactly three times in the hospital, every time after you did something that almost ripped your stitches apart. And, according to those shadows beneath your eyes, you haven't slept one minute last night." She turned around to look at them at the table. "Someone care to explain what happened, and why his recovery has suddenly regressed to, like, four days ago?"

"You see, there was that…" Sophie tried, but trailed off into silence when Betsy looked at her.

"Yes?" she encouraged her, but Sophie waved to Nate and shrugged.

"An incident," Nate said firmly. "A small one, nothing to worry about. And I can assure you, it definitely wasn't his fault."

"I see." A calm smile appeared on her lips, and Hardison jumped to his feet, pulling Florence and Parker after him.

"We have to go to her apartment to do various complicated things that have to be done with her computer," he quickly explained, his hand pushing her in the back to move. "You two stay, we don't need you… Eliot, don't try to protest, I have all the cameras on my phone, everything is covered, and being watched." They were at the door when he finished his sentence, and when he closed the door behind them, the only thing they could hear were muffled voices, all speaking at the same time.

"We'll just wait here in front of the door for a few minutes, until she calms down," he explained when Florence looked at him.

"But, isn't it understandable that he-"

"She forbid _everything,_" Hardison whispered, leaning his ear on the door. "She allowed him to go to the kitchen and bathroom, and back, nothing more. He is too weak, he has to rest after every walk, and if he overdoes it now, he'll deteriorate all the progress he'd made so far – and she is very strict about it. Knocking out two killers with knives – and I know, I just _know_ she'll draw that from him – geez, the force field of Sauron from the Prologue of the Lord of the Rings is nothing comparing to her wrath."

"Why can't he say he just tried to practice, or walk a little more, or-"

"He's unable to lie to her, have no idea why." Hardison thought for a second. "We are _all_ unable to lie to her – and we lie for a living. It's a deeply discouraging thought."

"I like her," Parker said, her arms crossed in disapproval. "She's the only one who can cope with him, and make him do necessary things."

"No wonder. That woman is Sauron with Moriarty's mind, you hear me?"

He had to jump away when the door opened and Sophie hurried out.

"I'm not really needed in there, Nate can take care of that," she quickly explained. "Besides, she's right, it _was_ reckless."

"Nah, it had to be done, reckless or not, and you know it."

"Still-" Sophie broke off when they heard a pissed off voice from the apartment. "_You did what?!"_

Nate showed up at the door, bringing his coffee with him.

"He signaled me to leave," he said, shrugging. "Though, I'm not quite sure if it was diving on a grenade, or if he had some backup plan… we'll see. If he manages to calm her dow-"

"_Fucking KNIVES?!"_ The voice became a howl.

"So, the grenade it is," Nate sighed.

"Yep, definitely the grenade." Hardison squinted.

They listened, but the voices were much quieter now, they couldn't understand any word.

Hardison checked his phone, probably watching the cameras to see if someone was coming. It would be a really nice touch to meet those two again, this time with guns, when the one who could deal with them was inside, and all of them were out here.

"I'm not so sure anymore if this silence is a good, or a bad sign," Sophie said carefully after two more minutes of non-yelling.

"Hey!" Hardison said like he remembered something and started pressing buttons. "Parker2000 will help," he said, typing quickly. "Maybe if I drive it on the floor, she'll get distracted and tear it apart instead of – ohmyfuckinggod!" Sophie managed to catch his phone when he dropped it. "The Eye! I knew it!"

Florence tried to peek at it, but door opened once more. Betsy was holding a strange green toy right in front of her face, using one eye to eye something that looked like its face. She didn't have to peek at the phone anymore, she knew what image Hardison saw.

"Eliot said to give it to you," Betsy said calmly, pushing the toy into Hardison's hands. "And he said you can come back." She turned around and went back.

"Did she just win a staring contest with a robot?" Hardison asked, perplexed. "Did she?" He looked into the toy's face, and hugged it closely. "Even robots can have trauma, you know…" he continued to murmur quietly, following them back into the apartment.

Eliot was alive, unharmed, and absolutely calm.

"I can't trust him to act responsible," Betsy said with a sigh. "He'll do it again. Nate, can you keep him out of this thing you're working on now?"

"We are not working on-" Hardison tried to answer before Nate, but Betsy shook her head.

"Two guys in front of your door, and your neighbor having a regular visit, consequently? With her cat? You're messing with something, and it's too early."

"Whatever we do, his condition will be calculated into it, don't worry," Nate said.

"Oh, I'm not worried," her smile was wolfish now. "Parker, dear…" she looked at the blonde and they exchanged grins. "Will you take care of that?"

"Hey!" Eliot's calm was destroyed in a second. "What the hell-"

"I won't be able to come tomorrow, so I need someone cruel enough to keep you from trouble. Which wouldn't be necessary if you were able to do it yourself," she said taking her jacket. "Just in case, let's repeat the basics… no skipping the medicine, only getting up three times per day, one walk of five minutes tops, avoiding using the right arm, oxygen if needed, and rest. By rest, I mean 23.5 hours of it. Is that clear?"

"Crystal clear." Eliot's smile was brilliant.

"You see?" Betsy nodded to Nate.

"I have to _live with that_, Betsy."

Betsy stopped near Florence on her way out, and she squinted a little. No matter how calm and gentle her eyes were, she felt piercing. She observed her with significant thoughtfulness for a few seconds, and Florence could only smile, waiting for the verdict that never came.

"See you in two days." And she was gone.

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The fight with Betsy went much better than he expected; she missed exactly five potentially dangerous clues. She might have been distracted by the unknown woman.  
Eliot wasn't, however, looking forward to fighting with Parker and her sense of rightfulness, twisted even at the best of times. Betsy wasn't quite aware what she unleashed on him, but he knew very well that he had to watch his back. Literally.

He noticed that he wasn't the only one who knew that. When Nate went to escort Betsy out, he went back by Parker's place with the ropes and locks, and took away the taser while she was sitting with Sophie and Florence.

Eliot closed his eyes and tried to drift away – this morning was too exhausting already, and he felt that the rest of the day wouldn't be any different, but he was too worried to relax.

He knew Nate would do anything to keep this as benign as possible, and that everything they did would be adjusted to this weird situation, but it wasn't Plan A that scared him. He could count on one hand how many times they managed to pull off Plan A without trouble, and every time Nate got past G in the alphabet, things were badly going south. The fact that this time, when that happened, he wouldn't be able to do anything, maybe not even be near, was tying his stomach in knots.

He wasn't fooled by the quiet and slow start – Hardison was doing all the necessary steps, retrieving data, plans, potential targets, security details, preparing everything for the beginning of the con, and with every new piece of information that flashed on the screens, Eliot was feeling more restless. And angry. Mostly at himself – but no matter how many times he went through the last night's events in his head, he couldn't find anything else that he could have done in that damn corridor. Letting that woman be killed was out of the question, as much as letting her go without helping with her troubles was… and that only strengthened the dreadful feeling he had about all this.

_Stress ball, right_. That would surely help to ease the fear. Right now, he was felt like tearing the bed apart, and using its parts to knock down all the walls that surrounded him, until every single brick was crushed to dust. And this was just the beginning; they hadn't even started to do anything.

"Can you explain to me one thing?" Hardison's voice stirred him from thinking, and he was almost grateful for that. Yet, when he saw his grin, he quickly changed his mind. "What kind of a duck did you send to Betsy?"

Yeah, it would be very strange that Hardison didn't notice _that_. He contemplated a few evasion tactics, but it seemed pointless – if Hardison sensed he was deceiving him, it would only make him more curious. "She hates phones," he said slowly, glancing at the table where the others were sitting, not even pretending they weren't listening.

"That's cool," Hardison said. "But, forgive me if I don't see a connection-"

"So she wanted some other way of communication," he said carefully. "And that ended up with duck sending. I'm not quite sure how it happened. Will you go away now?"

"Does the duck have a name?" Parker chirped from the table. "You named a plant George. The duck must have-"

"Wait, wait," Hardison's grin broadened. "You're not getting away with this… what kind of communication?"

Damn, the best way to finish with this was quick and painless, directly to the head, but he felt his teeth gritting. He had to physically relax his face to answer. "Facebook. She made me create a Facebook account. Enough?"

The look at Hardison's face would have been priceless if Parker's giggle wasn't so ominous.

"Who are you and what you have done with Eliot?" Hardison said slowly. "I knew it…alien abduction. You were replaced in that damn hospital, and we brought home an intrud-"

"Cut the crazy, will ya?" he suppressed growling, but barely. "I'd like to see _you_ saying no to her."

"Please, tell me you didn't make the account as Eliot Spencer, with your picture-"

"Are you nuts?!"

Hardison turned to the table. "Nate, this is serious… we can't let him stagger online without supervision, for God's sake, who knows where he can end up eventually. Jesus." He turned to him again, and a hint of the real worry could be clearly seen under his grin. That made this fiasco a little more interesting... in fact, that just opened up a few possibilities to turn this in his favor.

"What are you trying to say… that accepting friend requests might be dangerous?" he asked quietly.

"What kind of friend requests?" Hardison cautiously asked.

"Dunno… after Betsy, it seems that every single nurse in Mass Gen sent me requests – they are all connected. That's how I ended up with the duck," he sighed, carefully arranging his face into a half confused, half annoyed expression. "Nobody told me that I don't have to accept every game request they send me."

"Farmville," Hardison whispered. "You're playing _Farmville_ with Betsy. Somebody shoot me."

"Did you know you can make a picture folder with your crops in it? I'm currently playing with patterns on my field – pumpkins are bright orange, and the lavender is indigo, it's a great combination," he continued. "Of course, it takes a little skill to calculate, because pumpkins take eight hours to full size, while lavender needs two days. Do you want to join us?"

Hardison took one step back. "Thank you, but I'll pass."

"You have no idea what you're missing. It's a way better than fishing – as soon as you have enough time, I'll tell you everything about it. The Greenhouse is especially interesting, with combining different-"

"Stop it," Hardison hissed, taking one more step back. "Forget I asked anything. As far as I'm concerned, we never talked about this, okay? I don't want to know…anything."

"Your loss," Eliot sighed, and closed his eyes, allowing him to run away, barely able to hide a smile.

Hardison would figure it out, eventually, but until then, he'd be spared Facebook lectures, and lessons about internet security. The worst part of it was that it would be a well-meaning, and worried attempt, and he was sick and tired of the nice people that surrounded him, watching over him. They were all too smart to annoy him openly, they all kept their distance, seemingly paying no attention to him – damn grifters. At the same time, he could feel a shift in their attention after every move he made, or when he wasn't making any moves and they thought he should.

Betsy was no exception, and he knew what was behind that stupid plant growing game, especially when he got an invitation for a Café World, too – if she thought that pumpkins and cooking game could occupy him and divert him from the current situation, she was wrong.

The best way to keep them all satisfied was going along with their moves, so he grew plants to prevent some other ideas, and he made them eat unheard of things, trying to show them that cooking was the brightest point of the day, waiting, just waiting, for hours, for a day to pass. To steal a few hours during the night, to prepare himself to survive another day.

He was getting the hang of that, every day pushing his boundaries one step further, step by careful step, he was slowly returning control to his thoughts and reactions, and then _this_ happened. The last thing he needed right now was helpless fear.

He was very satisfied with feeling _the need_ to help that girl… after all, if he let her die it would be just one more death, nothing special, nothing crucial – but that feeling wasn't enough to pull him through thinking that he maybe, in the long term, made a mistake.

He opened his eyes to look at her, and caught her just at the moment when she smiled at Sophie. She caught his movement out of the corner of her eye, and looked at him, prolonging her smile to him too. So he smiled back.

She was more than cute. And ridiculously brave. Just a little strange, with that short blond hair and weird sense of humor. And completely unaware that the man who saved her was thinking about how she might have been more useful dead than alive.

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	5. Chapter 5

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Florence used the last preparations for lunch to check her laptop; she sent an email to Jethro, blaming Orion for the smashed camera – a Skype conversation from the unknown apartment would ask for an explanation, and she decided not to disturb him yet. He couldn't do anything to help her, and his worry and fear would just disturb her. She had had enough of that already.

Ford was listening to the Winslow & Knudsen recording again, standing in front of the screens as if he was trying to enter the set where it was shot. He had said he'd already listened to it several times, and it was clear that something was confusing him.

She peeked at it as well, seeing Knudsen as a part of the mafia for the first time, not just as an owner of a security company. The change of perspective was interesting. Knudsen was on the set, she remembered every detail of that laboratory from the fourth episode, and he briefly talked with two of his men. One of them gave him car keys and he dismissed them when Michael Winslow approached. Knudsen was a young shark, sharp and quick, and Winslow, with his gray hair and slow steps looked old and tired. She noticed that Ford stopped the recording when only Knudsen was in it – he caught him at the moment he watched his men go, playing with the keys and smiling at Winslow. Her mind automatically gave him all the bad guy attributes. His eyes seemed cold. Blue, as sharp as his face was, and arctic. Winslow looked benign standing near him, and though she knew that the balance of power was in his favor here, he wasn't the one that looked threatening.

It seemed that Nate thought the same.

She used everybody's lack of attention to go through all the news that talked about the Boston shootings from the last week – she hadn't paid too much attention when that happened and she knew only the basics.

It was more than interesting. That sudden outburst of violence in a peaceful town was still confusing all the analysts, and she just scrolled through numerous theories, trying to find mere facts. There were few. It seemed that it was a final encounter of the many smoldering fires amongst the criminal world, and the skirmish was deadly. It didn't ignite into fire, but into an explosion. Some analysts were connecting it to a terrorism threat a few days after, but many more of them had a theory that the government covered it all up by bringing up a nonexistent terrorism attack. Some of them made pretty good observations that the virus threats were only in the casinos which were mainly led by different gangs.

None of that, however, mentioned any consulting agency involved. She copied the files that mentioned Don Lazzara, and then looked at the five people around her. Ford had explained to her why he'd involved the police after all, and showed her the statement she 'signed'. If nothing else, that calmed her suspicion a little – if they weren't reluctant to involve the police, and the Bonnano he mentioned was clearly his friend, maybe their kind of work wasn't _all_ illegal.

She mentally scratched the _body parts in the bathtub_ scenario, and went onto _TV writer involved in half-legal extortion and burglary_. Because, that thing was obviously on Ford's mind, according to a few sentences she overheard. The _a__cquiring_ of evidence clearly had many meanings.

Hardison was working on a blueprint that she recognized as C4 Headquarters only by the artificial lake in front of the driveway, but she said nothing, as if she didn't notice, or didn't connect the dots. She just continued to search through the articles about the shootings, trying to find any clue that she could use.

When the time for lunch finally came, she had only a mess of inconclusive data, many names, and nothing concrete. It seemed that the only way to find out what their role in all that was, was to draw it from them, somehow.

"If you want, you may eat at the table," Parker said to Eliot who was adding some final things to the bowl while they were sitting at the table.

"_Thank you_, Parker," he sighed. "It's very merciful of you."

"No, it is not. You only have nine minutes for eating, so hurry up."

Florence hid a smile, just as the others did. In fact, Eliot looked as if eating was the last thing on his mind, and passing out was something to welcome.

She didn't dare to ask what this dish was exactly; although it was the first time she ate something with so much fennel in it, it tasted excellent. Hardison was the last one who dared to touch it, but even he had no objections. The only one completely without an appetite seemed to be Eliot, who was just rearranging the food on his plate. She could bet he was counting down those nine minutes, waiting to get up and rest. He had already used all the getting up and walking that Betsy allowed for one day, not to mention preparing the lunch, and he looked beyond exhausted. Yet, except Parker, no one said a word about it.

Hardison and Sophie discussed tomorrow's meal, darting in random ingredients and debating their use, but despite that the randomness was terrifying for even her to listen to, Eliot said nothing.

"What do you know about Don Lazzara?" she asked when Hardison got up for more wine.

"Not enough," Nate answered. "But we hope to collect more useful information as we go along."

A very polite evasion of the answer, she thought. "Italians were included in that big shooting too," she continued. "Maybe that night can give you more answers, if you dig a little. It's confirmed that the Italians attacked the Chileans and the Irish more than once."

"Don Lazzara, as we can see, has many playgrounds." Ford's answer was completely calm. "We don't know yet if the fact that his nephew is the head of C4 Security means that Don Lazzara has anything to do with your case. For now, he is just a potential complication, nothing more."

"So, investigating his role in that night would be a waste of time?" she went on, trying to find a way to ask something more concrete. "Even if Dvorak Security was among those on the streets, attacking the other cartels?" She took more bread while speaking, watching the others – there was no change in their behavior. She half expected that they would dart glances between each other, or avoid her eyes by staring at their plates… well, maybe she spent too much time writing reactions that would be appropriate for a screen and actors. Sophie and Hardison were looking at Nate with sincere interest, just as if they wanted to hear his answer too. Parker was grinning at Eliot, showing him three fingers, probably the countdown of the minutes left, and Eliot was glaring at her. Yet, though they behaved as if she didn't ask anything, she could feel the tension like the cloud over the table, showing her that her questions were not welcome.

"There is a possibility that Dvorak Security was on the streets with the other Italians That Night, yes," Ford's voice was even softer now, and that was the first warning sign. "Why would that be important?"

"That insight can give you more info about their modus operandi than anything that Hardison can find, wouldn't it?" she smiled at Hardison. "And in case you don't know who shot Eliot, maybe you can find some clues as well."

Silence.

This time Nate raised his eyes to Eliot, and Florence noticed he was watching her.

"I was shot three days _before_ That Night." Eliot repeated the slight accent on those words, just as Nate had, speaking equally as calm. But at the moment he spoke, Hardison put his glass down. "We know who did it – the police were there in a few minutes, and the attackers were arrested on site. That case is more or less closed."

"They weren't Don Lazzara's men?"

"They weren't Don Lazzara's men," he smiled; a strange, sweet smile that triggered a small subliminal wailing alarm deep in her mind. _Stop it, you fool. The bathtub option is still open_. She watched him, barely noticing that Parker shifted, exchanging a spoon for a fork, but she overrode all the signals and went on.

"My recording showed that you were brought here the morning _after _That Night, still leaving blood behind you."

"I left hospital earlier than it was smart," he said with an even voice. "Precisely, earlier than Betsy thought was smart."

"What were you doing?" Nobody at the table was moving anymore, the silence was so thick that she could cut it.

He paused a second, watching her. "Mostly bleeding," he said finally.

"How come all of you then got involved in that trouble That Night, particularly with the Italians?" She sensed his inward flinching after that question, hidden by a completely expressionless face.

"Only two words." Nate's voice was tense now, and all of them looked at him at the same time. He paused one second too, then grinned and said: "Shit happens."

Parker snorted, Sophie shot a brilliant smile, and the tension dissolved in a second.

"We are a shit magnet." Hardison smiled too. "I mean that in the most positive way, of course. Do you know how difficult is to consult shit? 'Cause that's what we do – we consult. We, the associates."

Florence giggled, admitting defeat. _For now_. She checked only Nate and Eliot - they both were hiding a smile, even Eliot; this time it was a normal, warm smile that had nothing to do with that strange feeling just a few seconds ago. Though, she couldn't see his eyes, they were lowered to his plate, his head bowed just enough to hide them. She immediately regretted involving him in the conversation when she saw he put down the cutlery that he couldn't hold any more – his hands were shaking badly.

Hardison was up in a second. "And speaking of shit," he said, going to Eliot's left side. "Here we have one who looks exactly like it. C'mon, that's enough. You were sitting, talking, eating, we are very impressed, actually in complete awe, but that's it." He pulled him up on his feet while talking and Florence noticed that everybody held their breaths for a second, as if something unusual was going on. Yet, Eliot said nothing, he just kept smiling; he allowed him to get him up, swaying a little, and Hardison took him away, step after careful step.

Nate poured her more wine and borrowed Parker's fork, while Sophie offered her one more ladle full – it was such a well played and natural distraction that she almost missed the darkness in Hardison's eyes when he returned. It was replaced with a grin in the less than a second and she wasn't even sure that she saw it right… but yet, she knew she had overdone it, more because of the strange feeling of unease in her stomach, than because of their reactions.

"It started with the Chileans." Nate's voice was quiet.

She raised her eyes to him, flinching under those calm eyes. "We put one of their lieutenants in jail," he went on. "And they swore revenge, tried to kill us all. Eliot was the first to go down, but they failed - he managed to warn us and we fled."

"Nate…" Sophie bit her lip. "The less she knows, the better for-"

"The more she knows, the less she'll ask. Besides, she ought to know that she is involved with people who got into trouble with the Irish, Mexicans, Armenians, Italians and Chileans – and who might still pay for it." His eyes never left her, and Florence tried not to hunch down into her shoulders. "It culminated That Night, yes, but we managed to skip under their radars…barely. The problem with Don Lazzara is not that we were openly involved in his trouble, because we weren't – but it would be wise not to walk under his very nose now, so soon, and force him to start connecting dots. Retroactively. That's why we are not happy with his nephew in your case."

"I understand. Thank you for letting me know." She glanced to the bed. "It would've been better if I had waited with my questions, right?"

"Yes, it would," his voice went gentler. "He left the hospital with internal bleeding, to do some things that needed to be done, and he barely lived. In fact, it's only been a few days since we were sure that he would live. Do _not_ ask him anything, Florence." That was the clearest warning that she had ever heard in her life, and she just nodded. Something terrible must have happened to him, or they wouldn't-

"Nothing happened to him." Sophie's voice was as soft as silk. Florence met her eyes, stunned. "We just don't want to disturb him further – he decidedly doesn't like attention or nosy questions about, well, anything. That's all."

"Besides, he'll be out of it the rest of the day," Hardison jumped in. "Can we continue with lunch, finally? You're all too morose for my liking, and this is getting cold. I suggest we watch the DVDs after lunch, to relax before going out, and Florence can fill us with anecdotes from shooting. Though, we'll have to lower the volume in case he is sleeping already – he desperately needs to rest."

That 'going out' part, said so lightly, drew a worried sigh from her. She had no idea what they were going to do, and asking them now, after this, was not such a clever option.

"No," Nate said quietly, a hint of a smile touching his lips. "No rest for him today."

"What?" Hardison blinked, but Florence noticed Sophie's smile of approval. "He already overdid-"

"_We_ will rest." Nate's smile broadened. "I've thought of a better use for him."

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"What?!" Eliot just stared at the grinning Nate who walked to his bed at some point after lunch, _just when he thought they'd all finally shut up_. "You gotta be kidding me-"

"Nope. You're bored," he repeated. "You'll watch the DVDs. Someone has to be informed."

"I won't. I'm not bored. And Hardison is much better at that geeky stuff. I don't watch-" he stopped himself when he looked at the table. Hardison's grin was so broad that his head was sliced in two halves already, and Florence… her face fell. _Fuck_. "I don't watch _any_ modern shows, because…" _because they're stupid, and illogical, and naive_, the things he couldn't just say in front the author of one of those. "…because I have a phobia of, of, of quick camera movements, especially when it comes to panoramic-"

"Eliot, cut the crap." Nate clicked the remote and a cheerful introduction played on the screen. "Move. Sofa."

"I'm not bored," he murmured, slowly getting up. "I'm very busy. And I can't watch it, I don't have my-" He just sighed when Nate pulled his glasses out of his pocket; yep, he should have expected that from the bastard who always had it covered. He didn't bother to ask how the hell he managed that.

He snatched the blanket and the pillow from the bed, and stood motionless, but Nate's grin was merciless. If he didn't go to that screen, that screen would come to him, he was sure.

"Do you want me to take notes?" he asked bitterly, contemplating suddenly passing out.

"No, I want you to remember everything important." Nate's face had that strange expression that people trying to suppress a laugh often had, and he realized he was standing by the bed, in fucking baby blue pajamas, hugging his pillow and the blanket, and _whining_. He thought about explaining that the blanket covered his trembling hands, and the pillow held in that position was resting his right hand, but he thought better about it and just growled in utter frustration.

And he managed to _march_ to the sofa, without stumbling on the two stairs, he didn't even notice them this time. What the fuck was important in her series, that had to be remembered? Nate's motives weren't usually so damn blatant. If he thought that watching some stupid show would exhaust him and force him to sleep through the night, he was wrong. Or, to occupy him and give him something to do instead of remembering various shit, he was, well, _very_ wrong.

"Why don't you two join him and Florence?" Nate said to Sophie and Parker who were busy in the kitchen, and he barely managed to stop his teeth from gritting. It was getting better and better. Classical diversion of attention: keep the idiot busy with pretty pictures and popcorn, and he wouldn't notice Nate and Hardison at the dining table going through the plan for the evening. _That would be executed without him_. As if he needed more reasons that would tie his stomach into painful knots.

Florence came to sit beside him, looking uncertain and not so happy.

"Nate," he managed to produce a small, calm smile. "Even though practice is not possible, the theory is still important. Maybe now more than ever. I have to see-"

"Every episode of the first season, to see the tone, and know the characters and plots," Nate finished his sentence. "Be nice to Florence."

And keep her occupied and away from our plan, now he finished _his_ damn sentence. He hated himself.

"Besides, it's too early for you to sit in a chair again. Later."

Okay, that was going somewhere. They wouldn't go there without him checking the security and finding all the trouble and dangerous spots first – they just needed him to keep the intruder busy for now.

He glanced at the intruder who was sitting on the far end of the sofa, and sighed. Be nice. He could do that. _He mastered fucking nice to perfection_.

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"See? There! The upper right corner – that's where the sniper is, and they didn't notice it. It's important, it's the first mistake that Vin made in four episodes, and the consequences will go through the entire season 'til finale." Florence grabbed more popcorn from Parker's bowl, and Eliot hoped she would just shut up, her mouth being full, but she continued. "They'll all have to learn to trust his judgment again – trust is the main theme of the first season, because they are all just thrown together. Do you have any idea how complicated it is to make seven loners trust each other?"

"That sniper wouldn't-" he tried to say something, but thought better and shut up. _This is so wrong_.

"Shhhh!" Sophie snapped at him, as if he was the one that kept talking all the time, and he slowly drew himself a few more inches away from three women staring at the screens in utter fascination.

"You can _feel_ his inner struggle," Sophie whispered.

Dear God. He covered his eyes with his hand.

Turning around completely would be physically too demanding, but he sent a mental glare to the source of the almost silent snickering behind his back, at the dining table. He moved a little more and brought his fingers up to briefly pull his eyes back and make them appear oriental, and finished by holding up his hand and making a quick turning motion with his finger. He was the only one who noticed Nate's quiet huff of laughter. _Yes, Nate, Kurosawa is definitely turning in his grave_.

To be honest, he knew why this show was so popular, even if it had nothing in common with the original movie – it was entertaining, funny, clever and fast, and he could feel a part of the slightly weird brain sitting next to him in it… she was _really_ good. It wasn't, really wasn't important that her stunt coordinator was obviously a retired gardener, those mistakes were understand- "What the hell was that?" he had to say that when he saw the fight.

"Ah, that's Buck…" Florence said if that was self explanatory. "You noticed that in every fight he keeps his back turned to the camera? Well, the actor can't fight, he blinks and squints every time someone waves a hand in his face, so we shot him this way. He's extremely… nonaggressive in person."

"I could never tell," he solemnly said, and she shot him an inquiring look. Be nice, he reminded himself. "He compensates for that by being shirtless a lot?" Nope, that wasn't nice either. "I mean…he's… he is a very thought out character, his inner struggle can _definitely_ be felt."

Surprisingly, she smiled – a broad, sincere smile. He felt less like a jerk, but he didn't like that he noticed how her face gleamed from within, and there sparkles in her eyes.

"Occasional shirtlessness is crucial for fandom happiness," she said. "The shows that don't deliver, fail. I know what I'm doing."

And she surely did, he admitted with a sigh. This wasn't boring, and he had no problems concentrating on one episode after another, and he even found himself thinking about the subtle subplots and their possible resolution in the end. Damn gripping thing. He didn't dare to imagine how gripping it was for the women who watched it. He expected Parker to be the one who would comment on every jump, every climb, break in or driving, but even she was glued to the screens, missing her mouth with popcorn _twice_.

Well, he wasn't actually needed here anymore, right? The three of them wouldn't go anywhere for the next three hours, and if he just skipped one or two episodes, and returned for the season finale - he wanted to see how Chris would manage to pull himself out from that pit and keep them all together – no one would notice he wasn't there with them. He would have enough time to see Hardison's security data on the C4 building and-

Nate cleared his throat behind him, and he stopped getting up and slowly turned around.

Nate wasn't smiling, and the knots in his stomach tightened.

Well, fuck. _This wasn't Plan A anymore._ He could almost hear all the bits and pieces of this shit colliding in Nate's head, and his watching the show was obviously part of it.

He exhaled his anxiety in a slow, calming breath. "Yes, Boss," he said softly. Nate just nodded.

He sat back, avoided Sophie's suddenly sharp eyes, and took the bowl from Parker.

"Can someone tell me," he said with a sigh, "why it is so important that Buck and Josiah are involved with the same woman, and why do I _feel _it could do irreparable damage to the fragile, yet very deep bond between two of them, that we just started to discover a little more of?"

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Afternoon was slowly crawling into evening when Hardison interrupted their watching with info that needed the big screens to be properly explained. Or he only said so, Florence thought, noticing the resigned looks on the faces of Leverage Consulting & Associates. Her guys also had briefings and made plans together, and those scenes were perfect for showing the team dynamics - but she also had countless hours of experience in the writer's room where long nights were spent solving difficult scenes, plot holes, and budget cuts. She also knew that this was a nice opportunity to learn more about them, especially if they started to quarrel over the plan.

After the first five seconds she knew she wouldn't see anything, because Nate smiled at Hardison and nodded at her – the meeting would be adjusted to the presence of an intruder, carefully cleared of anything that she didn't need to know. Yet, Nate was wrong… she was interested in _them_, not in their modus operandi, or all the illegal things they were doing.

"Do you want me to lock myself in the bathroom and run the water, so you can speak freely?" she asked when Hardison changed the picture with which he was planning to start.

"Not in this phase," Nate responded seriously. "Maybe later, for your protection. Besides, this is just info that we all should know, and it's easier to explain it all at once, than separately."

"I completed the info about Don Lazzara, just in case." Hardison pulled up the picture while he spoke; the Italian looked like someone's jolly, slightly weird uncle, with red cheeks and a crown of dazzling white hair, all of that wrapped into broad smile that showed two rabbit-like front teeth.

"You're joking, right?" Eliot asked staring at his smile. "This can't be-"

"Wait, I thought you met him that night somewhere-" Hardison rolled his eyes. "Or before. In the past."

"Nope," Eliot said slowly. "I've never met him face to face. There was no need to…" he hesitated a moment, not looking at her, but Florence knew her presence was stopping him from explaining. "Look, Boston is huge, I didn't have time to make a proper meeting. As far as I know, Don Lazzara was involved in That Night via a middleman. The story I've heard goes something like this: a Hummer, property of Villacorta's lieutenant, attacked Don Lazzara's house. Just a little shooting – but they left Rojas's gun at the scene while running away, and he didn't need more to realize the Chileans attacked him. The voice of Renan Villacorta later called Don Lazzara, officially, and explained it was a mistake, and he offered Tapia's casino as a gift of good will. The Voice also asked for a truce while the Chileans dealt with their other trouble, and maybe even cooperation. That's the last thing I heard about it… but you don't have to be too smart to know that Don Lazzara decided to act right then, when the Chileans confirmed to him they were vulnerable, and under other attacks. The perfect time to deal with them for good." He paused, thinking for a second. "Of course, these can be only street rumors, and the real story might be different, who can tell now?"

It was really a good thing that she was concentrated on them the whole time, so she didn't have to change her behavior, and no one noticed that she held her breath. She could buy this, certainly, he really said it like he was just talking about something he had heard, but much to her surprise, Sophie was the one who gave a little sign. The dark haired woman looked at Eliot and for one quick moment, her eyes were smiling with professional admiration. Her eyes were _proud_.

Now she knew a part of his doings after he left the hospital and it sounded very useful; if the Chileans were attacking them and trying to kill them, pushing another gang onto them might work. In fact, it surely worked, since they all were alive now. The only thing that confused her a little was that he obviously told them that for the first time – they didn't know it before.

She reminded herself to write this down later – it was extremely useful as a plot twist, and she already knew episodes in which she could use it. "He really looks like a jovial old man," she said to show them she didn't notice anything.

"Not in these pictures, the last ones I found." Hardison clicked and pulled up a set of images. A bunch of people in dark suits, screaming mob all over the place. "It's a commemoration for his friend Luigi Polenghi, who disappeared a few days ago. Police found a huge blood stain, and forensics said it was lethal, so he was pronounced dead even without a body. DNA results confirmed it. These pictures were taken yesterday." There was no smile on the Italian's face now, and something heavy and thick radiated from his eyes.

"When, exactly, was his friend was killed?" Ford asked.

"Two days after the Department of Defense closed his casinos. I don't think it's connected. It can, however, be aftermath of That Night, but we can't know for sure."

"Involving the Italians in That Night, in the end, wasn't so clever." Eliot said softly, looking the picture, but his eyes seemed to be focused on something distant. "Whoever did that, made a mistake. Their presence didn't bring anything important, and just added to the final number of dead."

The silence after his words was interrupted by Ford pulling up a chair and sitting, yet nobody said a word. Hardison just changed the pictures, seemingly preoccupied with the buttons on his remote.

"Only a few days ago, I would almost agree with you," Ford said lightly. "But I connected a couple of dots after everything settled down and I had enough time to think about it. If Don Lazzara wasn't involved in That Night, Bonnano would've had to identify four bodies in a burnt out van before dawn. We had a classic car chase," Nate glanced at her and smiled. "It would be pretty impressive as an action sequence. The Chileans were chasing us with machine guns."

"It was exciting – I was driving," Sophie said with a broad smile. "But, we were much slower and I couldn't avoid all the bursts of bullets for that long. The Italians were the ones who dealt with the Chileans. They just appeared out of nowhere, and _their_ machine guns took them off our back. We can say we are lucky that they were called in."

"_Machine guns,_" Eliot said through gritted teeth, staring at them and Florence wondered why no one didn't jump to bring him his oxygen. "Nobody told me anything about _that_. I wonder why."

"You almost went into hyperventilation when we mentioned that Hardison had a gun at one point," Parker pointed out, busy with popcorn. "And Betsy said – no disturbing him. By the way, have you changed your mind about teaching me how to shoo-"

"Soooo, these images represent all of Don Lazzara's latest transactions," Hardison quickly jumped in. "Sophie, don't grin at him, and you, breathe. You can fight later, now I'm talking." Nobody paid any attention to him, Sophie blinked innocently, Nate rolled his eyes, and Eliot…

"Fucking _machine_ guns," he repeated, crossing his arms.

"Yo, eyes up here, all of you… I've spent four hours preparing all this info. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find out anything about a mob boss? What do you think, that I _googled_ him? Nope, I hacked, and hacked, and – okay, that's it! Nate!"

"Maybe it would be best to just put all of it in one place, so we can all see it later if necessary," Nate said carefully. "Is there anything extremely important, that we have to know now?"

"Everything I find is extremely important! His accounts, his bank transactions, all his phones records, his whereabouts for the last two weeks, I even made a map of his driving because, yes, you wouldn't guess, I hacked his damn GPS! I have all his legal businesses. Florence, did you know he has a small production company and modeling agency, too? The television industry is obviously something that every mob boss has to have his nose in. I also collected all of his emails, public and hidden, and I have his correspondence with a few guys who wouldn't be happy if their conversations were revealed to any law enforcement agency- is anybody listening to me?"

"I'm listening," Parker said slowly, and Florence joined her with a quick nod.

"Thank you." Hardison put a hand on his heart. He waited, but the other three didn't even glance at him. Nate was watching the screens, Eliot was silently fuming, and Sophie joined Parker with the popcorn, still grinning at Eliot.

That woman behaved differently with him than any of them, Florence realized, watching her. All of them were cautious with their words and reactions – okay, maybe except Parker – but Sophie was the only one who poked at him without any fear and restraint. She was the only one that didn't calm him down or avoid that could upset him.

Yes, having seven guys was perfect, but now she was becoming aware that something was missing in her series – she needed strong woman characters. These people, particularly Sophie, could tell an entire page of script just with one quick glance of the eye, and one smile.

"He takes these briefings very seriously," Nate quietly explained, and he got a hiss from Hardison instead of an answer. "Okay, people, that's it, you may continue with your DVDs. If Hardison finds something else, we'll stop you again."

"It's fascinating to watch the briefing of a consulting agency," Florence said, perfectly serious. "It reminds me of one of my scenes – it's in the second season, you'll see it soon. All seven of them were drunk, one half was fighting with the other, one third were certain they were making a plan for one bad guy, the second third thought it was for some other one, and the rest thought they were talking about a movie they all watched an hour before." She reached into Parker's bowl and took some popcorn. "I have no idea why this reminded me of that. Do you mind if I take notes the next time?"

Hardison raised a threatening finger in her direction, his eyes wide and full of warning, but she giggled at him – when he smiled, surrendering, she felt something new, the sense of acceptance. She felt comfortable here, with these people.

Damn. When did that happen?

"Fucking machine _guns_." The quiet murmuring from her left, this time, didn't bring any bathtub images, so she elbowed his legs to move him, curled up on the sofa near Parker and nodded at Hardison to continue their episode.

"And now, my favorite one – you'll see what happens when all of them have to do things they're not used to, and don't know how to do them, because they are split up and scattered without any sort of communication. Yep, shirtlessness galore, get ready."

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	6. Chapter 6

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Five hours and seven episodes later, Eliot's head was pounding, his eyes burned, and a headache was digging its way into parts of his brain he didn't even know existed. Parker obviously thought that the sofa was the same as the bed, and as long he wasn't walking, he was resting, so she allowed it; yet, he was painfully aware of the difference. And he was exhausted.

_Don't think about machine guns._

He was sitting, almost laying down with his legs on the coffee small table, but he was pushed all the way to the end of the sofa, with the women piling on the rest of it. It was fascinating what watching a bunch of handsome men could do to the strong individuals; Hardison provided an endless supply of popcorn, the bowls were all around them, and they were mixing their personal spaces without noticing it. Even Parker; her feet were laid over Florence's lap, a thing that would astound him for decades if he wasn't so damn tired. Sophie's presence helped with that, of course, she was a buffer zone in the beginning, but all those boundaries slowly melted down with occasional giggles and whispers.

They seemed almost… normal. _What a terrifying thought_.

His left arm was buried under a heap of white fur – Orion was lying on his back, his head resting on Sophie, and he been watching him with suspicious yellow eyes for the last hour. Every time he tried to free his hand from under the cat, he produced a sound that was a mixture of a growl and a purr, and he had no idea what to think about it. Well, in case of a sudden attack, the cat could be used as a dangerous flying weapon, if he was able to throw him at all. The damn monster seemed to be fat and well built.

He used the introduction of the next episode to pull out his phone and type a message. Only one letter, an exclamation mark – Nate needed no words to know that the levels of his patience were so low that they were reaching China by now. It was getting dark, they didn't have so much time anymore.

"Eliot, can you come over and help us with something?" Nate called a few seconds later; _finally_. He carefully removed Orion, and pushed him so that his fur spread all over Sophie's dark blouse – they didn't notice him getting up at all. Fuck, he was stiff, everything hurt, and he felt like he'd been running for hours.

Hardison was resting his chin on his hands, looking at the women in fascination. "This is…very strange," he said. "Those guys ain't _that_ good looking!"

"It's the plot," he smiled at him, restraining himself from baring his teeth. "You have no idea what you've been missing."

Hardison looked tired too, and that surprised him. The hacker had been there from early morning, but he did nothing except the things he usually did. He probably spent the entire night playing those stupid elf games, and came directly to the office.

"You're half sleeping already," he said, carefully sitting on the chair, resisting the urge to rest his elbows on the table – raising his hands to that point looked like extreme waste of strength. "You sure you'll be in shape for this tonight?"

Hardison frowned first, but then he thought about it. The question wasn't mocking, he needed an answer. "It won't take that long, and yes, I'll be okay. I drank some coffee just five minutes ago."

Hardison divided the screen on his laptop into nine smaller pictures and turned it to him. "Nine cameras, three of them covering the surroundings, and the rest inside. The building is, as you can see"—he pulled up a very simple blueprint, showing a three story building with a long corridor on every story, with offices at the sides—"very easy to monitor and control. Winslow's office is that green dot on the third floor. Every corridor has one camera that sweeps at regular intervals. The lobby has one, the back stairs has one too, and the one in the conference room is connected to his office. The control room is near the lobby, I think they have just one guy in it."

"Guards?"

"Two inside, two outside, changing every hour."

"New men, or just changing places?"

"Changing places, one hour inside, one hour outside, same guys the entire night."

"Anything unusual?"

"Not that I noticed. Guard duty in the network building is routine, it isn't like they are watching over something valuable. Just normal supervision." Hardison's voice went softer watching him. "There's no need to worry. Parker already made an entry plan, Sophie and Nate will be decoys if needed, and we can expect no trouble."

He suppressed a sigh and forced himself to speak calmly. "I'm the one who deals with both expected, and unexpected trouble, Hardison. You, maybe, can deal with the expected stuff, you know a lot… but sudden turns calls for a hitter, even when there are just four guards. It takes just one guard, just one bullet-" he stopped for a moment. "No, don't tell me not to worry, okay?"

He simply hated the way his voice revealed all his stress and fear in spite of all that huge calmness, but Hardison, though he must have noticed that, just nodded. He also hated that Hardison thought that he had to act tactfully around him; grinning and mocking would be way more natural. And welcomed.

"Give me all the cameras, the last three hours, on fast forward."

Hardison did what he'd told him, and the screen went fast, blinking, with the little speeding figures of guards that were running in circles on all nine cameras. It took almost twenty minutes, and his headache grew, but he slowed it down only three times, to check a few details. He had to catch the rhythm of their movements and go with the flow; on fast forward all the changes were more noticeable, like sudden jerks in a steady rhythm.

Hardison was occupied with something else, but Nate watched it with him; he couldn't tell what he was seeing, nor did he have time to think about it.

After the next five minutes, he was sure that the headache, like a giant worm, had just eaten an entire third of his brain, leaving it full of corridors, passages and secret chambers with only air in them.

"Hardison," he said. The hacker raised his eyes to him, instantly knowing something was up.

"Trouble?"

"Yep."

"I missed something?"

"Nope. It wasn't for you to know. You'll have only three two minute intervals to break in, the first one is in less than two hours."

"Why? Parker found four half opened windows that can be used without a trace of forced entry, two of them are in the blind spots of the outer cameras, she calculated all the positions of all the cameras inside – she had ten and more backup steps if the first failed. She calculated the route of the two guards that were inside at the moment, and avoiding them is in it, too."

"Those two guards that she counted in…is there any chance that they were those two?" he pointed to the pair that was slowly pacing one corridor.

"Yes, why?"

"Because if _the other_ two are inside when you enter, you are dead."

Hardison just sighed.

"This pair, let's call them Green, is watching everything very thoroughly, checking everything by the book, and they are very professional, with years of experience. Forget about them, Parker can easily walk two steps behind them, and they wouldn't notice her. They are predictable. The other pair, call them Red, before this job were on the other side very often, the one that was breaking in. These are not the two that attacked Florence, but they come from the same line of work, working as security, and dirty jobs inside. They do everything that Green does, but at their pace, with their route, they change their rhythm of checking the corridors, and they go counterclockwise." He showed him the Red pair going around the building now. "That means they are facing every intruder, coming _into_ them – 98% of the people who are trying to find an entrance go clockwise around the building. They know that, they are using their own experience against possible intruders. They also, right now, as you can see, changed their route again, they went at 90 degrees left, closer to the wall of the building. The last time they went by that spot, they passed by it, and then suddenly returned. They are unpredictable and they know what they are doing. You can't deal with Red, Hardison, and even simply avoiding them might prove difficult."

"Suggestions?" Nate asked his first question since he had sat with them.

"You know I could go with you, and be close, and even _do_ something if necessary?"

"Yes, I know. Betsy said you're able to do everything."

"What?!"

"Once. You can do almost everything you think you have to, but once… and that would be it. So forgive me if I'm not letting you to do something now – if you're going down again, I'll wait for the real danger to involve you, because only extreme situations, something really deadly, would be worthy your one month recovery from it. Is that clear?"

"You shouldn't trust every damn word Betsy says, you know that?"

"For now, you're the Joker that we can only use once. Deal with it."

He stared at him, not sure if arguing would do any good; Nate's tone was matter-of-factly calm and reasonable. And he was right, too, but that fact only pissed him off more.

Hardison raised his hand. "That place they just turned into, closer to the wall of the building… that's one of the blind spots Parker found. We can assume they know about the others, too."

"Yes, we can," Eliot sighed. "So, the avoidance plan… that's why I said you'll have only three chances to get in. After every hour, they exchange positions, going in and out the main door. Two minutes when they are all at one point. You have to enter the complex when Red is inside and Green is out. Use the very end of Green's outside shift to get close to the building, you won't have trouble passing them, wait until Red leaves, and enter into building when Green do it, starting their one hour shift through the building. Leaving will be the safest if you can wait that hour inside, unnoticed, and use another exchange to go out along with Green, using them to pass through the surroundings again with less risk of being seen – but if it isn't possible, you'll need a decoy that'll occupy Red outside, on the opposite side of the complex. Nate?"

"That can be arranged. Anything else?"

"Red will be trigger happy, they adjusted their holsters five times in three hours, Green didn't touch theirs once. Red will shoot to kill – eliminating the threat is the only safe way to stay alive, they won't bother reading you your rights. If they suddenly decide to shorten their shifts, messing up your exit plan, abandon everything, no matter what stage you are in – just run."

He stared at the recording for a few seconds more, while dozens of possible 'extremely bad fuckup' scenarios went through his mind. Nate and Sophie as decoys, that wasn't worrying him so much, they had less chance to get involved, but Parker and Hardison dancing around the guards… Jesus, he _had_ to be there. Their adaptability to the sudden chance of gunfire was none to nonexistent, he was usually there to take care of that kind of danger, and every single one of their reactions he could imagine was a disaster. And he could imagine a lot of them, he knew all the things that could go wrong, and every dreadful situation that flew across his mind was beautifully wrapped up with loud shouting, screaming and gunfire from behind his back.

They were going after two professional mob killers. Without him.

_Don't think about machine guns._

These damn pajamas didn't have pockets to thrust his hands into, to hide them – he had to change into sweatpants as soon as possible.

"How's the series going?" Only when Nate asked that, lightly, he did realize he had been staring into nothing for who knew how long, counting the gunshots coming from the big screens.

"Slow." His voice was a whisper. He sighed and rubbed his forehead, continuing normally. "I'll finish the first season when you get back, and the second one during the night."

Nate just glanced at the screens instead of answering, so, he _was_ right. One part of his demand _was_ to keep him occupied, and preferably exhausting him as much as possible, so he could sleep at night. Well, tough shit – weariness had nothing to do with sleeping.

Hardison was tapping his chin with one finger, looking at the blueprints and recordings again, and he knew he could leave the rest in his hands – the hacker would find the safest way through those obstacles. Yet, he almost smiled to himself – his trust in him had nothing to do with his fear.

"And why are you so damn quiet?" Eliot turned to Nate, who was just sitting there, relaxed, still occasionally glancing at the laptop. "Which plan are you now on, by the way?"

"You don't want to know," he said with a small smile. "Something is not quite right here… not in this piece tonight, no… I'm talking about in general. The plan is simple, and it will work, I'm not worried about it – after all, I told you this is not The Job, this is just acquiring evidence. There's one word that's constantly reeling on my mind, and I can't explain it yet."

"Which one?" Hardison frowned.

"Overkill." Nate smiled and got up. "Work on it some more, we'll wait for the second two minute entry, not the first one in two hours. They'll be more eager during the first change of positions, the second one, after two hours have passed without trouble, will relax them a little. That gives us four hours, enough time for Parker to adjust everything that needs to be adjusted."

Hardison followed him to the sofa with a resigned look in his eyes. "And he's gone," he sighed. "Overkill, huh? I guess we'll find out about it later, then. Typical." The hacker suppressed yet another sigh, and rubbed his eyes. It was visible he wasn't happy with the action tonight, and that was good.

"Overconfidence is the mother of all fuckups, Hardison," he said quietly, just in case.

"I'm still working on the simple confidence part," the hacker smiled. "I don't think I'll have enough time to reach the 'over' part tonight. Not even close." His smile was a little crooked, he looked exactly as young as he was – one more disturbing thought.

He could talk for an hour about warnings, useful reactions, trying to cover every possible trouble they might face, but it would be in vain, just a confusing mess that would only slow him down if anything happened. It would only scare him more. Fear could be useful, but panic could kill.

So he said nothing.

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As the hours went by, Parker was the only one that was still occupied with the episodes on the screen, and Florence started to feel exactly the same kind of tension that was spreading all over the room. Those five people were the center of her attention and she concentrated only on observing them, trying to find out more about them. Every time she thought she came to a conclusion, something new happened and she had to start all over again. For the entire day, her five living groups of puzzle pieces had been arranged, and rearranged, and at the moment they started preparing to 'go out', she had just five piles again, scattered and shapeless.

Hardison had explained to her how to use the earbud – she was supposed to guide them through Winslow's office if they needed details. Sophie had explained all the mess that she'd encounter when five voices started to echo in her head, and how to deal with it. Parker was silently humming the main theme of the show, carrying strange black things to and fro. Florence watched her with fascination – she seemed completely absent, but in the middle of humming she went to Hardison and his laptop twice, pointed at the screen and grinned. According to Hardison's reaction, it was obviously something not only important, but crucial.

Nate was just sitting with a cup of coffee, and though he hadn't said a word since they turned off the DVDs, she hesitated in asking him anything, feeling that her questions might disturb whatever he had on his mind.

Eliot didn't return to watch her series after he talked with Hardison and Nate, he went back to the bed, and he had spent the past two hours with his eyes closed. She checked. He didn't ask to lower the volume, and she would bet he could repeat every single word that was said in the last two episodes.

She put the earbud in her ear to get used to their voices, and everything that was said was in stereo, completely clear.

After Hardison prepared some other laptop to take with them along with a tablet, they were ready to leave, and yet nobody told her a word about what, in fact, they were going to do. Well, now wasn't the time for that question, that was for sure. She stood by the sofa, not knowing what to do and what to say. To wave goodbye to them? To say 'break a leg'? _To call the police to stop them?_

Eliot was up, and he was going to them, so she decided to see what he would do, and act accordingly.

"And where the hell do you think you're goin'?" He stood in front of the small group, blocking their way to the door. Okay, maybe she _shouldn't_ follow his steps, after all.

"What?" Hardison blinked at him.

"You won't leave 'til you put all nine cameras on the big screens. I have to know what's going on. I have to see it."

"And why? So you can reveal your Superman shirt under your pajamas and fly over Boston to the rescue? No way, I'm not putting the cameras up there – you'll just get mad and drive yourself nuts."

"He has a point," Nate said, leaning against the kitchen counter.

"You're not leaving then." Eliot crossed his arms and just stood there. Hardison took one hesitant step forward.

"You know," Sophie's voice trailed in. "We were all very happy when you finally managed to cross your arms, it gave a very _distinctive_ note to your constant 'nope, not gonna happen, no way, I won't, no chance, no Ma'am'… we missed that a lot."

"Back off, Soph. If you think you can pass by me to that door, I suggest you all do it at the same time, your chances might go up slightly. No one is leaving here until he does what I told him. I'm not negotiating."

"Should I taze him?" Parker asked Nate, but he just shook his head. She frowned. "Not at all, or not yet?" After another no, she sighed and sat on the stair.

"Look, Eliot," Nate sighed. "It wouldn't be smart. You'll be connected to the earbuds, there's no need to-"

"Not. Negotiating."

"You gotta be fucking kidding me!" Hardison almost barked. "What would you do, you idiot, stop us with violence?"

"In your case, that won't be needed."

"You know I still have one punch for you – I might take this as a good opportunity to even the score, you know that? Stop pissing me off and move out of the way!"

That threat just made Eliot's grin more wolfish. "You're in the women category, Hardison, which means I'll hit you only if you hit me first, so c'mon, we can settle all this now. Your move."

"What?!" Hardison choked. "Woman category? You cocky son of-"

"Guys, guys," Nate sighed again. "Just do it, Hardison, this is pointless. He won't move."

"Told ya' so."

"You'll let him bully his way- no man, this is not acceptable, this isn't the way to treat your colleagues, your friends, your-"

"Hardison," Sophie softly smiled. "With the recordings on the screens, he will feel even more miserable than without them."

Hardison opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it and closed it. He pondered a few seconds, while they were all still standing there, then smiled. "You're right. Who am I to argue with self destruction, right?" He returned to the table and got busy with the laptop, and all rest of them just stood there, waiting in front of Eliot. He didn't move an inch.

Parker was looking Eliot over from head to toe, her head slightly tilted. "You know I could get past you if I wanted. You're not that fast."

"Have you ever heard of 'temporary insanity', Parker?" His glare was cold and steady, no traces of joking present.

"Temporary?" Hardison hissed from the table. "In your case that would be an improvement."

"I'm _really_ glad you're aware of that fact. Your self-preservation instincts just moved one rung up from Daisy Level."

"Is there a _name_ for what's wrong with you?" Hardison emphasized his words with a violent strike at the keyboard, and big screens tilted with black and white security footage. He took the remote and tried it, moving back to them. "Okay, here you go," his voice went back to normal in a second. "Press these numbers if you want one particular recording to be on two, three, or all six screens. This button to go back. This pulls up the other three cameras. Do _not_ touch anything else!"

"What if-"

"No what ifs, don't touch anything." This time Hardison crossed his arms while Eliot was trying the buttons, putting all the disapproval in the world into one nasty stare. "And if you get…nervous… because you're here, and we are there, that's your fault, you asked for it. Deal with it."

"A new toy." This time, Eliot's smile was almost boyish. "What does this red butt-"

"Parker, where's that taz-" Hardison's hiss was interrupted when Nate pushed him ahead of himself.

"Enough. Go. Move. You," Nate turned to Eliot. "Behave yourself. Florence, if he does something and tells you not to tell us, call us immediately."

"Yes, sure," she sighed, not sure what she was supposed to think about the man who seemingly completely forgot about them, pressing the buttons and changing the channels with an impish smile. Maybe Hardison was right, and there _was _a name for what was wrong with him, she thought, going after them to lock the door, something he obviously forgot.

"And what now?" she asked, not knowing what to do or where to sit. "Audio is on the laptop, right, the comms we have…"

"Don't touch that either!" Hardison's voice in her ear almost scared her.

"Pull it out, it'll only confuse you," Eliot said, going to the table to pick up the laptop; he brought it to the sofa and sat. Florence did what he said, noticing that the smiles and good mood were erased from his face. He looked tired and worried.

"I want to hear what's going on," she said, sitting as well.

Instead of answering, he pressed something on the laptop, and their voices came through the speakers – he lowered the volume to almost silent. A quick exchange between Hardison and Sophie could barely be heard. They could understand the words if necessary, and every change in their tone would be noticed, but they were just a background, not directly in their heads.

She didn't like the way he bowed his head and rubbed his forehead – it looked desperate. This entire show before the door was just an act, she realized, noticing his weakness and worry – he gave them something they expected, but it spent his strength. Playing with the toy was just a decoy for Hardison, to divert his attention. From what? That was the question she needed to find an answer to, but she had no idea how. He closed his eyes and rested against the back of the sofa.

He was strange, and he scared her a little, but when he smiled everything looked okay.

"You mentioned a self preservation level 'daisy' when you talked to Hardison," she said suddenly. "Was that, by any chance, connected to…this?" she pointed to his pajamas, with elephants holding daises. He flinched visibly, grimacing, but not looking at it.

"Possibly. I had no other choice. Long story."

"We have time. They have to drive half an hour."

He sighed and pressed something on the laptop, and his green line went red. "I bought that monstrosity when I was at the hospital to use it as a decoy for the cop that was guarding my door. It worked. But, someone, later, remembered that, and thought I bought it because I liked it. So, that someone spent a night rummaging through Mass Gen, trying to locate the personal belongings of a runaway patient, and showed up at dawn, dusty, tired, and very pleased with her prey." A pained expression flew over his face. "There wasn't any way to say anything, except, 'Thank you, I really missed that – hell, I was almost desperate thinking I'd lost it'."

She chuckled silently, not sure how he would react, but he smiled – finally.

"I guess that helped us last night – those two were stunned with my choice of nightgown."

"You don't mind if I use it in my next episodes? If…" she frowned, remembering the cancellation. "You people almost made me believe that the cancellation is just a temporary nuisance. You…"

"What?" He watched her, still smiling.

"You're sure you can win this?"

"Win? It's not the correct term. Winning is…" his smile faded a little, as if he remembered something he didn't like. "If you concentrate on winning, you're screwed. We prefer…. refusing to lose. It's like refusing to die – that's the only way to stay alive. That's enough. If something doesn't work, we continue with something else, refusing to lose, until the game ends. In our favor. It takes time, often, but it works."

She watched him, realizing how much experience he must have had with 'refusing to die'. Damn, even when she used 'Hollywood healing' in her episodes, she never made any of her guys to actually do something three days after they'd almost died. "Have you ever lost?" she asked quietly.

"No." He smiled again, but his eyes darted to the big screens for one second, to the nine cameras and the guards that were waiting for his team to come. She realized just then that he'd had the earbud in the entire time while he was talking to her, listening to them, his attention split without her noticing it.

He was their security, she finally realized. The rest of them had other fields, other roles, and they were going in without backup, without him. She had written a few plot twists of that kind, and she was skilled at building the slow, but inevitable anticipation of impending doom – but nothing she could imagine could match this man's smile, not any actor she knew could show so much by _hiding_ emotions.

Well, this rabbit hole worked backwards, she thought, lowering her eyes to the laptop with the audio readings – she had been pushed into the fucking real world, torn from her nice, little fantasy world.

Those guards had real bullets, and she could see that in his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

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The rest of the team was still driving when Eliot got up and went to prepare coffee. Florence wasn't sure if that was something that she should report to Nate – was she here to spy for him? – and more importantly, was it something that Betsy would approve of. The nurse didn't seem to be happy with him staying awake all night. She took a paper from the bunch at the table, wrote down 'coffee so late at night?' and put it in her pocket.

She was entertained by Sophie's and Nate's banter about something that happened four months ago; Nate said the wrong date and that was enough to start an avalanche. Those two had _many_ strange issues. The other two were quiet, probably worried, or concentrating. Florence decided to stay silent and just observe and listen until she was needed, and that seemed to be Eliot's choice as well. He hadn't said a word to them since they departed.

After their talk about his pajamas, he didn't say a word to her, either. It would have been comfortable silence, if he didn't look so calm, showing nothing. When he returned with the coffee and just continued to watch the cameras, following the guards' trajectories, she noticed that he sat carefully, tense and as if he was ready to start running at the next moment. His every move was controlled and deliberately slow; he was suppressing himself, not letting his anxiety show, so she wouldn't see it and get upset.

Florence looked at the laptop with their comm lines on the screen. "What do I need to press so they can't hear what I say, and I can still hear them?"

He showed her, and she quickly turned her green line into a red one. "Okay," she whispered so his comm couldn't catch her words. "If you're trying to act calm and relaxed so I wouldn't freak out, you're doing a lousy job. I'm scared and nervous. You're not calming me down with that Buster Keaton empty face, so just stop, okay?"

He slowly turned to her, cutting off his line as well. And then he _smiled_. His tired face transformed in a second and Florence stopped an inward 'oh', when that smile touched his eyes. Fuck, this was by far the most beautiful smile she had ever seen, and she just blinked.

But the smile vanished faster than her blink, and his face went into a closed, cold mask once again. "_That_ I would do if I wanted to calm you down," he stated flatly. "Which I wasn't doing. I'm concentrated on them, not on you, and I have no time to pay any attention to your fear."

"You can repeat that at will, even when you're all grumpy and in a bad mood?" she grinned. "Do it again."

His eyes narrowed slightly. Uh–oh. Not the right time for joking. "Okay, I'll shut up," she sighed. Instead of an answer, he turned away from her and concentrated on the screens again, unmuting both of their comms, so she curled on the sofa and continued to watch the corridors and the park around the C4 building.

Well, he _did_ calm her fear, she thought glancing at his profile – that melting smile was still vivid in her mind. She worked with seven world renowned actors, all of them in the top ten on every list; their smiles were really something. Yet, somehow, all she ever wanted after a long day on set was to come home to Jethro – she was tired of gorgeous men and their smiles, no matter how dazzling they were.

She shouldn't let one grifter, a conman, who probably practiced that smile to lure his victims into, blah, _something_, disturb her. She took a few pieces of paper and wrote a few short notes about her next bad guy, dangerous, dark and deadly, able to play any role and move mountains with his smile. Killing him off would be a challenge. She glanced at him again, thinking, and then wrote 'a bazooka' near the description. Somehow it seemed that bullets were insufficient in this particular case.

She put the papers in her pocket, took the coffee, and prepared to get scared again – the voices from the earbud went quiet. They had arrived on the scene.

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They parked Lucille on the street near the park that surrounded the C4 building, and Nate checked the time.

"Five minutes 'til they switch positions. Hardison?"

The hacker was monitoring all the footage, already dressed in black, as was Parker who was checking her gear one last time before they went out. "All set, we're ready."

"Florence, are you with us?"

There was two seconds of silence. "Oh, that was for me? Yes, I'm here, listening. I can't see your van on the cameras. Will you be visible on the recordings when you get in?"

"The point is to avoid that," Hardison said, giving the sign to Parker. They both got out of Lucille, closing the door behind them.

Sophie stayed in the driver's seat and Nate moved to the screens in the back, opening the side door. That was the only way to monitor their progress through the dark park with bushes. Two big street lamps were on the opposite ends of it, and ground lights lit up the lake and the sculpture near it. He couldn't follow them for long, because the two dark silhouettes merged with the darkness and disappeared.

The two Green guards were slowly approaching the main door, coming through the park from the opposite direction of Parker and Hardison, but Nate followed them on the live feed, watching for any sudden change that could endanger the two. There wasn't any, for now. At the same time, the two Red guards were coming to the main door from the inside, pacing the ground floor corridor. Nate knew Eliot was monitoring them as well, and that he would report any change, maybe even before they made it, but he watched it as well. There wasn't time for sloppiness now, they couldn't take the risk of being caught without a hitter who could deal with everything dangerous and clear the retreat path for them.

Lucille was parked so they could see the camera blind spot Parker had found. The ground floor had large windows that couldn't be opened, but they were lucky. The camera wasn't covering a small row of three high positioned windows that were obviously only there for ventilation purposes. The offices wouldn't have it, and according to the position near the end of the long building, and the size of the room Hardison measured on the blueprints, it had to be some sort of storage or archive. That was the easiest point for the entry.

"Hardison, why don't you just hack that thing from the outside?" Eliot's voice sounded annoyed when he spoke, for the first time after a long pause.

"Yeah, and write a script that would send Winslow's hard drive flying through the window into Lucille? You have no clue, right, you think it's- yes, I would search for wireless and Bluetooth access points, usually, but their internal servers are shut down now in the middle of the night, so I have to do it manually – and that means getting into the junction room that has IO stations, and that particular junction room is stationed at the end of the corridor. I will- you stopped listening, right? I _feel_ your mind running through the green fields in a galaxy far far aw-"

"What? Was any of that actually English?"

"Okay, people, Red and Green just met at the main door, they are exchanging info," Nate said, checking the time. "Green is going inside. Ready?"

"We are under the window now." Parker's voice was, to his relief, all business. "Hardison, lift me up." A soft 'cling' sound was heard after a few seconds. "Okay, I'm in. Hardison, climb up after me, and don't whine-" He didn't whine, he squeaked. "Climbing three meters on a rope isn't very demanding, you know?"

Another squeak. Nate patiently waited.

"I'm in," Hardison's tortured voice finally whispered, after thirty seconds. He sounded like he had spent two hours in the gym. "And I was right, this is the storage room. The lock shouldn't…. bleh."

"What?"

"I hate when they have enough money, so they could put electronic locks even on the storage rooms… or maybe they had discount prices. It'll take a few minutes to break the code."

"Break the code?" Florence whispered. "What does he mean-"

"I could explain normally, but I'll use Eliot's people's language: it's a little thingy that geeks connect to a lock, and then that thingy does strange things with numbers, until it _guesses_ the right combination. By magic."

"Ah, some sort of skimmer, right?"

"Your apprenticeship is confirmed. You may proceed."

Nate cleared his throat. "Hardison, how much time?"

"Four minutes, and then we'll be able to enter the corridor. The possible problem is, that we'll have to repeat those four minutes on every lock on our way, and that will slow us down a bit. Nothing to worry about for now."

"Eliot, sweetie," Sophie's voice trailed in, gentle and soft. "Will you please stop growling? You've been keeping extremely low frequency for the last few minutes, and my stomach is starting to vibrate."

"I'm not-"

"Oh, _that_'s what that sound…" said Florence. "I thought you'd left the coffee machine to work without water."

"I know it's maddening to sit there helplessly, listening to all the dangers we're going into," Sophie continued sweetly. "And being unable to help if needed. How does it feel? Really? Clicking on a remote, while we risk our lives?"

The first response was a quiet huff of laughter. "Sophie, you do remember the Reunion Job, right?"

"Why? Because I made you make me tea? I was just yanking your chain a little. I'm not neuro progr-"

"No, darlin'. Because of the cockroaches."

She gasped. "You wouldn't!"

"Try me. I'm bored, remember? Dozens of cockroaches, swarming-"

"If anyone is still wondering about the two of us that are inside of a dangerous building," Hardison's dry voice interrupted them. "We have two more minutes before the doors open."

"We're here, just continue," Nate said. He heard, however, the sound of a door _closing_. "What was that sound-"

Florence's barely audible whisper stopped his words. "Sophie!" she breathed, alarm sounding clearly in her voice. "Sophie, he took off his pajamas! What am I supposed to do now?!"

Even Sophie stood speechless for one long second, long enough for Florence to gasp, "No, I didn't mean-damn, that sounded wrong. He-"

"He _changed,_" Eliot's resigned voice trailed in. "And _he_ is in the bathroom. A closed door, Florence, is not a barrier for the earbuds. Remember that, okay?"

Nate sighed. "You changed into…?"

"Something more comfortable," Eliot stated with an even voice. "For no reason at all."

"_Sweatpants_," a breath came through earbuds.

"Thank you, Florence. Right, that's _definitely_ more comfortable than pajamas. With or without reason." Nate rubbed his forehead. "Okay, enough, we'll discuss it later. Now-"

"There's nothing to discuss," Eliot's voice went low. "Just concentrate on-"

"Hello? Door? Lock? Anyone?" Hardison hissed. "I'm ready. I can open the door now, but I'll wait two more minutes. Green is slowly going to the second story corridor, as you can see. Just in case, I'll give them a little more time, so the ground floor is sure to be clear."

Nate quickly checked all the cameras, and nodded. "Go when you're ready."

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Florence rested her elbows on her knees, resting her chin on her hands; when Eliot came from the bathroom, she looked completely absorbed by the recordings on the screens. Yet, she wasn't sure if she was still blushing, embarrassed to the bone.

"You're doing fine. You'll get used to it soon." She glanced at him when he said that; he wasn't smiling, but he wasn't frowning either, clearly deciding not to pay attention to a stupid misunderstanding. They had more important things to do; Hardison's two minutes were slowly crawling by.

"What now?" she asked, nodding to the screens.

"They'll avoid the camera in the ground floor corridor to reach the other end - Hardison will have to find that office to get to their surveillance system and put a loop in their feed so the guy in the control room will see a recording. That way they don't have to lose time counting the camera's movements for every step they take."

She went silent, trying to remember the building she had been in hundreds of times, but never paid any attention to those details. "If that camera moves, how-"

"Parker calculated the trajectory. Following it in the first half, waiting, moving a few steps to the right and back, waiting until it goes just over their heads, then following it again to the end… it's not so hard if you know what you're doin'."

This _was_ calming her down, she thought watching him carefully taking the cup of coffee.

"Sounds easy."

"Their surveillance system is not good – too many blind spots and moving cameras are amateurish, though it looks ominous. Low coverage. For Parker, it's a walk in the park."

"What would Sophie do?"

"Convince them they don't need the cameras turned on."

"And you?"

"Make sure there's nobody watching it, and walking around through the corridors."

Oh. That sounded… bad. She met his steady eyes, not daring to ask how he would do that, and knowing he told her that on purpose. She remembered the two bodies in the corridor. With knives. _Don't take these people too lightly_.

"By the way, that's a nice shirt," she said innocently. "You're not worried you'll spill your coffee on it?"

"You're drinking _coffee_?!" Sophie exclaimed.

"A _shirt_?" Nate said at the same moment. "Seriously?"

Eliot darted her a nasty look, but she just blinked. "Well, you're learning fast," he grumbled, hiding a smile.

The soft click of opening doors stopped her words before she could say anything and she went silent, just listening. They both held their breaths, she noticed. But when Hardison spoke there wasn't any tension in his voice.

"Okay, we are at the door, looking out. At this end the corridor has one small curve, and that's good, we'll wait at the corner for the camera to start sweeping away from us, and just follow behind it-" As he spoke, Florence pictured that place in her mind, remembering almost everything. She knew what door they were at, and how many meters they had to go before they passed - _oh shit_.

"Stop! Don't go into that corridor!" Florence said quickly, remembering one detail they couldn't know and couldn't see. "You can't pass it – a security room is in the middle of it, and they have a glass door. They are sitting towards the door; you can't pass by it unnoticed. You'll have to find some other-"

"No time for that." Parker's voice sounded calm. "Nate?"

"Stand down." Nate said just that and they all went quiet. Florence glanced at Eliot – his face was so expressionless it could be a mask. He put the three outer cameras on all of the screens, checking the position of the Red guards… if Hardison and Parker had to go back to try another way in, they would get too close to those two outside.

She didn't dare say anything, but she wouldn't have had time either; Nate spoke after only six seconds.

"Hardison," Nate said calmly. "Get into the employee records, give me the name of the last guy who came to work for them, and when it was exactly. And the name of the one who is now in the room. Florence, the phone number of their central."

Florence knew the number by heart, but Hardison was only two seconds slower. "The last guy on their employee list is James Hicks, 28, born in Austin - he has worked three weeks. The one in the room is Steve Canant."

Nate went on. "Florence, where does Steve have to go, or look, to have his back turned to the door? Parker, when exactly is next chance to pass by camera?"

"In twenty seconds. Nineteen… eighteen… seventeen…"

"Okay, get ready."

Florence froze, trying to picture the room she had only at glanced through the door when passing by… "Under the window was a shelf with drawers, and a big desk full of various things. That's the only thing I can recall-"

A new, unknown voice cut off her words, and she gasped, looking at Eliot – he gave her the sign to stay quiet.

"Steve!" the shaking, old woman's voice with a heavy southern accent was coming out of nowhere. "James forgot his pills! He forgot his pills and I can't find them!"

"What? Ma'am, this is the C4 Network, how can I help-"

"Hardison, Parker, on my mark…" Nate said.

"It's an emergency, Steve, James' pills are there – go to the table, he said he left them there when he left for home!" The voice was so desperate, so shaken, that Florence held her breath – the sound of quickly pushed chair was expected. "Where exactly?" Steve's voice was now disturbed too, followed by the sound of things having been thrown and removed. Something fell and cracked on the floor.

"Go," Nate finished.

"Okay, slowly going after the camera beam… we passed the door, Steve is beside table…" The pauses between Hardison's words were no more than ten seconds long, but they felt like an eternity. "… going further… yep, we're there, other end of corridor." Hardison's voice was mixed with sounds from the security room. "Let him go now, Sophie."

"Oh! Here they are!" the old voice burst into relief. "I found them, Steve. I found them! Thank you, son, and thank God. I'm so sorry!"

"It's okay, Ma'am, no problem. I hope-"

His voice disappeared, replaced with the sound of a dead line, and Sophie's voice changed. "This might work twice, but don't count on it."

"There'll be no need for it, they have a different exit," said Nate. "Okay, Hardison, next step."


	8. Chapter 8

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Florence took a deep breath when Nate's calm, still so calm voice ended the crisis – her heart was pounding 100 miles per hour. The man sitting next to her seemed to be used to this sort of tension. He wasn't worried about his team's responses, it dawned on her - he knew they would do fine with everything that came, but he obviously expected nasty twists from the other side.

She took the coffee, not so happy; she wrote situations like this one, but now that she was in the middle of one, she felt only confusion. Her mind was too slow to process when the situation needed quick decisions, and she knew she would fail miserably if caught in something like this alone. She remembered to write this down too, in case she needed all those details.

"Four minutes, the geeky thingy is working its lock magic," Hardison reported. They were obviously in front the junction room. Florence followed the camera that was slowly approaching them, but when it ran over the door, there was nobody in sight. Parker took care of counting their position. The two Green guards were still on the second floor.

"We're in," Hardison said after a long silence. "In five minutes, tops, we'll have their surveillance." Something in his voice disturbed her, a lazy, but very professional tone, and Florence suddenly became aware that she was an _accomplice_ in a burglary, if not something even worse. Something cold and heavy settled in her belly. She would be ruined for good if this went public. She would never work with _any_ network. _They were criminals_. She was helping them break the law, for Christ's sake, what was she thinking-

"Can we… can we… stop this?" she whispered, frightened.

"You're safe, Florence. Our clients are protected, never involved in anything we do, whether it goes well, or wrong," Nate said.

"This is wrong," she said.

"No, this is just slightly illegal. For now, we are just trespassing, nothing more."

Hardison jumped in. "I'm putting the loop in their live feed – you'll see the real recording, Steve will see the last hour."

"The last one?" Eliot quickly asked. "Last hour Red was inside and Green-"

"Calm down, I meant to say the last hour when they were in _these_ positions. Steve will see Red outside, and Green inside."

Florence gasped when both of them went out into the corridor again, and she clearly saw them on camera – it took a few seconds before her mind processed that Steve was watching the empty hall.

"Florence, we'll talk about this when we get home, okay?" Nate continued. "For now, we have to continue – but there's nothing you should worry about."

Yeah. But Steve would lose his job. Not all of Dvorak Security were mob killers. She had no right to destroy one person's future while trying to save someone else's.

"Now is the time for you to decide if you should trust us or not." Eliot was watching her fidgeting.

He saved her life. He didn't have to. Everybody else would have called the police and locked their doors. But if he was there, in the C4 building with Parker and Hardison, he would make sure that nobody was watching that recording, or walking through the corridors… She just stared at him, having no idea what, exactly, she unleashed on C4.

She could see out of the corner of her eye that Parker and Hardison were quickly climbing up the back stairs to the third floor, leaving Green beneath them, and she knew Eliot could see it too. She was also certain that he monitored all the outer cameras while his eyes never left her.

If she said she couldn't trust them, would she become a danger to them? She already knew too much. And she knew, she just knew, that this man, if faced with choosing between her, and his team, wouldn't hesitate for a second. He wasn't glad that Nate offered to help her.

"Well, I'm still here, that means I trust you," she said lightly, and something in his eyes went still. And very, very calm. "What?" she forced her voice to stay stable, but barely. _Don't lie to a conman, you fool._

"Eliot, stop scaring her." Sophie's voice was lit with a smile, and that eased her fear a little. "She's in the same position as Maggie was with the Second David, she needs some time to adjust, okay?"

"Okay," he said softly, and for some reason, that sounded much worse than if he was pissed or angry.

"Besides, remember…it's Nate's plan. His plans are cryptic at the best of times, even for us, and we didn't really tell her anything…concrete. Florence, we will not blow C4 up, okay dear?"

"Okay." She managed to hit the same softness as Eliot's voice had, though she doubted that it had the same impact on him. If the hidden smirk wasn't just an attempt to hide that she scared him. _Right_.

Hardison and Parker were now in front of Winslow's office; she could see Hardison checking all the cameras on his tablet, while Parker held the geeky thingy up to the lock, and nobody said anything until the lock gave way with a quiet sound and the door opened, revealing the dark entrance. They were in – and she still had no idea what they were going to do.

They disappeared in the dark, closing the door behind them, leaving the empty corridor and no traces of their passing.

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"Twenty six minutes passed since entering the building, Hardison," Nate said after checking the time. "Any problems with Winslow's computers?"

"Parker found his safe and she's working on it – she'll leave it intact, he won't know it was opened," Hardison replied. Quick typing was the only thing that could be heard in the silence before he spoke again. "I had to go very carefully, the long way around, to avoid every possibility that someone finds out his comp was hacked – I haven't even started on the other one yet."

"Okay, keep track of the time."

Nate opened Lucille's door again, watching the building. They were parked looking at the back of it, and Winslow's office was at the outermost end, on the right. He couldn't see the windows from here.

Their exit point was an office on the same floor, two doors down the hall; its window was exactly above the other blind spot Parker found. When the guards were on the other side, they could climb down completely unnoticed. Even if the cameras were showing the real recording, Steve wouldn't be able to see them disappearing into the park and darkness. But… Nate knew very well that when things were going as planned, the chance of a screw up rose significantly the closer they got to the end. In every other situation he wouldn't be so tense, but now, without a hitter, they had to be extra careful. Which usually meant that his backup plans had to have their own backup plans.

"Listen up, people," Nate said slowly. "We'll need at least one minute to get to the other side and pick you up if needed, if we're not busy with the Red guards as decoys. In that case, we'll need more time, and you'll be left with the Green guards longer than it's wise. And a getaway car for you two might be needed as in now. Sophie…."

"Sitting on the sofa, or sitting in a car, doesn't make a huge difference, Nate. I still can-"

"It does," Nate cut off Eliot's words. "Stop it. You're not leaving that apartment. Sophie, go steal a car. Leave it at the front side of the building, with the keys in it, and come back around the park."

"What?" She looked at him, perplexed. "I don't steal _cars_. I've never - I don't know how-"

"Okay, let me rephrase that," he smiled. "Sophie Devereaux, go out of the van, and return with a car. Any which way you like."

He endured her long, narrowed stare, but then she sighed and nodded. "I'll see what I can do," she murmured, closed her jacket and got out.

"Nate," Eliot's voice sounded strangely hesitant.

"No. You overdid today hours ago. Leaving the apartment is something Betsy isn't even mentioning yet, do you understand that? You probably wouldn't be able to climb down the fucking stairs to the car."

The quiet clearing of a throat was clearly a sign from Florence, but he didn't need her warning to know what amount of rage was boiling inside Eliot right now. Yet, someone had to point that all out, and remind him of his condition, no matter how maddening it was. Betsy had warned them about this, that they'd have a huge problem when it finally hit him, when he realized he'd need weeks of recovery to even begin to think about doing something.

Fucking ticking time bomb; the counter was speeding up, the numbers were going faster, Nate knew that – the explosion might be very deadly. But right now wasn't the right time to think about that particular problem, so he dismissed that matter completely from his mind, returning to the black and white images that tilted on his screens.

"Hardison, status?"

"Parker is done with the safe, and she's scanning the documents, I'm still working on his comp. Parker?"

"Five minutes tops. I'll scan everything, and later we can see what's important and what isn't."

Sophie's soft giggle ran over her words. "Well, hello, gorgeous…will you hold that door for me?"

"Sure, Miss, here you g-hey, oh, I'm sorry." One more giggle was followed with some rustle, as if things were scattered on the floor.

"No, no, it's my fault, let me help you… I'm a little clumsy after a few drinks, and it's two past midnight already... time really flies."

"Tell me about it. You live here, or…?" The male voice left the sentence unfinished, and Nate could picture his eyes going all over Sophie. Who, of course, already had his car keys. The quiet ping of elevator doors opening told him they were inside the lobby of one of the surrounding buildings.

"Just moved in. Will you please press number – oh damn, I've left my purse in the car. You go on, see you." The doors closed with a ping, taking her lucky neighbor to his apartment.

"Black Hyundai, ETA two minutes," Sophie said in her normal voice. "I'll leave it as near to the front side of the park as I can, but it'll depend on a free parking spot- Oh, this is so wonderful… it's already parked there, forget what I told you. Keys will be in it."

"Sophie, Red is near that spot now, don't let them see you by the car," Eliot quickly said. "Make a bigger circle when returning to Lucille, just in case."

"Already on it."

Nate let one long breath out, counting the minutes. Less than twenty minutes before the guards changed their shifts, and Red entered the building.

"Hardison, hurry up."

"Copying has its own speed, Nate, I can't speed it up now. Ten minutes, and we're clear."

"Okay, report any change."

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.

Just one minute after Sophie entered the van, it happened that Nate was the one who had a change to report - a change that stopped Eliot in the middle of reaching for the cup. Florence looked at his frozen posture; it seemed he would make holes in the screens, he was staring at them so intensely.

"Hardison, Steve is leaving his room," Nate reported. "Eliot, has he done that before?"

"Not in those three hours I was watching. He might-"

"Shit, this is not good."

All of them could see why Nate cursed. Steve was clearly only going to the coffee machine down the hall, but the Green guards were coming down the stairs, and they entered the corridor at the same moment he pressed the button on the machine.

"No reason to panic, for now – even if they stay to talk for a minute, they have nothing suspicious to report, unless-"

Florence wouldn't think something was terribly wrong, if Eliot hasn't stopped breathing when Nate broke off. She quickly glanced at him; that calm mask he was sustaining from the beginning now looked like his face was set in stone.

Nate's voice was strange, bleak and serious. "Hardison, finish that now. Parker, clear all traces. Get ready to leave in twenty seconds. Now!"

Florence quickly checked the three guards; Steve was startled when he saw Green, he stood frozen for a second, then turned to his room with clear disbelief on his face.

"What's going on?" Florence whispered to Eliot.

"Steve is surprised to see Green – that means he saw them somewhere else just before he left, probably on the third floor. And they couldn't materialize down there so quickly." Eliot slowly got up. He didn't take his eyes from the small group – Steve was quickly explaining something to the Green guards, and together they went into his room to check what was going on. "There wasn't a way Hardison could synchronize their real movement with the recorded and planted one."

"Hardison…" Nate went on, his voice slightly covered by the sound of an engine being started.

"I'm watching them, I think I'll manage to – yep, it's okay… I removed the loop, and now they'll see the real situation. If our luck holds, they'll say Steve just imagined them on the third floor ten seconds ago."

Nobody said a word, watching the camera; after three seconds, one of the Green guards went into the hall and waved at the camera, clearly showing Steve that everything worked like it was supposed to.

But the damage was done. Eliot quietly cursed when he saw Red by the lake, talking into their radios. "Nate, Steve warned Red, they are coming in to check everything, just in case. They'll start sweeping the building, office by office, in less than a minute. You two, get out!"

"Well…" Hardison's sigh stopped Eliot's pacing, almost making him stagger for a second. "Steve just recalibrated all the locks. That's four minutes again to open this door, then, Parker, camera?" Nobody breathed while Parker calculated the trajectory and time needed to pass the corridor that was now being watched again.

"Forty seconds, with fifteen seconds for waiting, all together one minute and twenty seconds with a slow pace."

"Plus another four minutes for the door of the office with an exit window," Hardison added.

"Ten fucking minutes! Are you kidding me?" Eliot growled and turned around like a caged animal. Florence sank deeper in the sofa. "All of them will be on the third floor before you get out of that damn office!"

He turned around again, glancing around the room, as if their way out could be found there… and the only thing he could do was lean against the back of the sofa with both hands. There wasn't anywhere deeper to sink, so Florence sighed and moved away from his line of sight.

Red entered the building; all the guards went upstairs together.

"Parker, Hardison, forget about the second office, you'll get caught in the hall." Nate's voice was calm again. "Parker, is there any way to reach the blind spot from Winslow's office?"

"There is a small, but _very_ small ledge under all the windows, and I can go, step by step until I'm above the blind spot… it's around twenty-five meters. But the ledge is too narrow, Hardison can't do it."

Florence squinted when the guards reached the third floor – if they had just decided to start from the ground one, and go up, but no, they _had_ to check the most important offices first. It was logical, even she had to admit that.

"Hardison." Eliot's voice was so controlled that it sounded almost like a whisper. "If they jump you, let Parker be in front." Florence looked up at him in disbelief; Hardison's gasp showed her he felt the same. "Don't be stupid!" Eliot continued. "If they face black man clad in black, they'll shoot immediately. If they see a smiling pretty blonde, they'll stop and hesitate, even Red. That will give you a few more seconds."

"No need for that," Nate said before Hardison could articulate any word. "Parker, forget about 'leaving no traces', it's too late for that. Plan B – short and clean. Throw him out, and don't think about the cameras."

"What?!" Hardison gasped again, but he was cut off by noises that sounded like heavy furniture being moved. The guards were still at the beginning of the corridor, opening offices and checking them, but that noise drew them all in a second. Steve opened the door and they all stormed into the office; Florence was pretty sure that the sofa would have permanent marks in the two spots were Eliot was clutching it.

Movement on one of the outer cameras drew her attention; she watched Parker elegantly sliding down the rope, followed by a knotted black mess that looked like a giant garbage bag with many flailing tentacles. Hardison landed with a painful thud.

"Get up!" Parker's cheerful voice run over his pained keening. "Uh-oh," her voice changed when she looked up, yanking him on his feet. "Run!"

Many gunshots covered every other sound and Florence forget to breathe, not knowing what was happening; the two of them went out of the reach of the camera after only five steps, they couldn't see them anymore. But they still were in range of the bullets that followed them from Winslow's window. Even Florence could hear the very methodical sound of two particular guns, firing bullets in a steady a rhythm until they emptied them.

Many, _many_ bullets. She didn't dare to look up again, at Eliot who was still hovering over the sofa, not moving, not talking – she just waited, as all of them waited, to hear anything from Hardison and Parker. Damn seconds lasted for years.

"Why's nobody talking?" Parker said after almost twenty seconds.

"Jesus, Parker!" Sophie gasped. "Maybe because we waited for you to tell us if you're alive?!"

"Of course we are," Parker sounded confused. "Hardison's trying not to cry and we are two meters from the van. Can we stop somewhere to buy ice cream?"

"Get in, and shut up," Nate's voice, though still all business, had a lot of smile in it, and after the slamming of the van's door that meant they were all safe, Florence took out her earbud.

She grabbed Orion who was carelessly walking by the sofa, and hugged him tight, causing him immediately start purring.

Jesus. She would never, never be able to write any action of this sort without feeling this strange mixture of panic and relief again; the adrenaline and fear were still fighting in her veins. She buried her face in his soft fur and closed her eyes, trying to get it together.

But Orion stopped purring and tensed in her arms like a spring – the cat was looking somewhere above her. She cautiously looked up, at Eliot who still remained in the same position, not taking his eyes from one particular camera. Florence glanced at the third floor again – the Red guards were in the corridor, talking, and the backs of other three had just disappeared at the stairs.

"Is everything alright?" she quietly asked.

"Of course." His answer was automatic. He didn't look at her. He slowly threw his earbud on the table, and rubbed his eyes.

"Okay," she tried again. "What's wrong?"

He waited until Red went after the rest of the guards, leaving the corridor empty, and then he turned to her, straightening himself up, very slowly.

Orion hissed and jumped away.

"Do you want to watch another episode, while we wait for them to come?" His voice sank into a dry whisper, and she bit off any comment about oxygen and stuff.

"No?" she said, waiting.

No response came. He simply turned around, darting a strange, quick smile, and moved away towards the kitchen. She thought he went for more coffee, but he went pass dining table to a window behind it, and leaned on the frame. She was pretty sure he wasn't looking through it, his head was bowed.

Just great. She sighed and sank into sofa again, suddenly tired – this was a long, long day, and the end of it was not nearly in sight.

When a window crashed with a burst of glass, her first thought was of the eighteen windows her crew used while shooting the sniper scene until her director was satisfied with the spreading of the glass all around.

She jumped, half expecting to see him on the floor, but he was still standing, and watching his hand. The hand that went through the double glass only a second ago, Florence realized. _Shit_.

Her hand slowly reached to the table, hidden by the sofa, taking her earbud.

Ten different approaches went through her head in one giant incoherent mess, every other one having Betsy in it, but she dismissed them all when Eliot stopped observing his hand, thrusting it into the glass again. Hit after hit, in a deadly precise rhythm, he continued to break all remains of the glass from the window frame – and it was a _huge_ window.

What would be next? Window or…? She put the earbud in her ear. "Nate – you better hurry up," she whispered quietly, her voice trembling dangerously.

She should have listened to Orion, she thought, curling herself up on the sofa, trying to hide her fear – and trying to become invisible with every trick she could think of.

Before he turned around.


	9. Chapter 9

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More coffee. That was the only coherent thought that Eliot had in mind when he managed to unclench his grasp on the sofa. He was staring at the Red guards, reading their soundless words and gestures, barely aware of Florence's questions. When the guards turned and walked away, he slowly exhaled. He _remembered_ their faces, and they were lucky - if he was near now, he would have a very hard time trying not to kill them. But if he met them somewhere else, later, they would maybe only get six months in a hospital. He ground his teeth, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

He had to calm down. _Now._

He had spent the past hour sitting stiffly, and he had to put an immense effort into forcing all the painfully knotted muscles to relax.

That was a mistake. He was lucky his hands were still on the back of the sofa, and that kept him on his feet. Straightening up only made it worse, because his knees felt like rubber. Everything went grayish.

This quick adrenaline fall would shake him any time, but now, when he was barely able to sit, it was disastrous. The steady buzzing in his ears was a sure sign he was deteriorating very fast, and that he should try to get to the bed as soon as possible. Preferably while he was still standing. He slowly raised his left hand and pressed it on his temple, but it didn't help, the hand went through his hair in an angry move he was barely aware of.

Of course he found himself going for more coffee, though he was pretty much certain he went to lay down and pass out. It was three in the morning, he said to himself – more coffee would do no good, it would only make the shaking stronger. Slowly, hesitating, he changed his course, and went to the window. Fresh air should clear his head a little. Oxygen would help him faster, but he needed, finally, cold air on his face. The walls of this dungeon were closing in. He rested his head on the glass and just stood there, resting, breathing; balancing relaxing with weakness was always interesting. He thought he was a master by now, but every day brought new challenges.

It took almost fifteen seconds before he realized he didn't even think about the possibility of a sniper, that he was completely visible in a huge, lit window – an amateurish mistake he hadn't made for years. Not only could he barely walk, he was also becoming reckless and sloppy.

He had to hold himself tighter to prevent eating the carpet, and his blood started to boil, slowly – all the rage and fear he had to hide in the last hour were burning their way out.

He was fucking forced to _sit by_, and do nothing, he was closed into the ruined remains of a body that didn't listen to him anymore, and they were again going after mob killers who might have more luck the next time… and he was _helpless_. Damn, he really needed that oxygen right _now_. But it was too far away. Instead of hyperventilating, he stopped breathing. Closed his eyes. Counted to ten.

He carefully forced his right hand to reach the latch. It worked. But then he tried to lift the window open… and the damn thing didn't move an inch. _What the fuck…?_ He stared at it, not quite comprehending what just happened. He raised his hand to look at it – he knew it was shaking, but still, opening the window? _He couldn't open the fucking window, he was too weak to_… Stunned blinking only made everything more blurry, and he bit his lower lip to stop himself from baring his teeth. But he couldn't stop the rage that always took over when despair grew stronger.

Without giving it any conscious thought, he just thrust his hand into the glass, becoming aware of it only when he heard the sound of shattered glass, and when pain sliced through him. He vaguely remembered that he was - _once_ - capable of breaking any glass without cutting his hand. A little trick that only needed complete control, not strength; one had to calculate the distance in millimeters, and hit and stop his hand precisely at the impact point, not going that millimeter further into the shards.

Now, his hand went through. He observed all the cuts on that shaking piece of crap.

_Calm down_.

He _was_ fucking calm.

And he was in fucking agony from what that vicious blow did to his stitches, setting his chest and shoulder on fire – but before he let the pain lower his right hand, he did it again. And again.

This time only the first glass broke, he managed to stop the blow two inches after the first glass – and the pain erased that damn numbness, his blurred vision was sharp again, and he felt _alive_. Not just an half empty shell. _He could do this_. Neither weakness nor the pain should lower his control – it was all in the head. Another blow. And another.

When the first pane was laying all around him he went onto the second without thinking twice, and he used pure anguish, gathering in him to direct his hand. Pain and rage could be used as fuel, he had done it many times, and he let them out with all the force, repeatedly, slamming his hand into the remains of the glass, until, finally, the last piece fell down. _Without_ cutting his hand.

He slumped forward and braced himself against the window frame when the exhaustion and pain hit him in full strength – the fire in his chest and arm kept a slow but steady burn – and only thing he could think of, with an aching head and empty mind, was how fucked up he really was. In more ways than one.

It took almost a minute before his breathing stopped being a ragged hiss and returned to regular, almost normal, and the anguish slowly ebbed away, leaving him tired almost to the point of passing out. Another minute passed before he collected enough strength to turn around and let go of the frame that supported him.

He had to take care of his hand, and the damn bathroom was on the other side of the fucking room. Well, step after step – there wasn't any other way. The room only spun a little.

After three careful steps he became aware that not only did he forget about snipers, he forgot about Florence as well – but not before he saw something that looked like a pair of eyes peeking over the sofa's back, under messy blonde whips. She ducked in a second.

_Fucking wonderful_. He managed to get past the two stairs without falling, and mentally set a course to the bathroom; that way even if he blacked out, he would be able to keep himself in motion enough to reach the door - but he stopped by the sofa. He ought to say something to her. _And what the fuck could he say_? Nate needed a new window? Oh, you're not sleeping yet?

She might have written seven action heroes, but she surely didn't know anything about violence, about pain and tortured minds. It wasn't her world. He wasn't certain he could face her now – not because he didn't want to see the fear in her eyes – no, he had no idea what was in _his_.

He stood there for a second, _knowing_ she was watching him; two worlds so separate, so distant, that maybe even the simplest communication wouldn't be possible after this.

He was crushed on more levels than he knew he had. "Stay there," he rasped, voice harsh and pained, not turning his head to the sofa. He couldn't bear to see _normality_ in her eyes now, to remind himself of the gap between them, and much to his surprise, that gap hurt.

Well, nothing new. Move along.

So he moved, reached the bathroom with just one sway, and closed the door behind him.

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Nate was driving under the speed limit because they couldn't risk the police attention, but Sophie was occupied with talking to Florence and it seemed they were home in a bit, though more than twenty minutes passed. She calmed her down using every trick she knew, but nothing could calm _her_. Nate's scowl was showing the same worry, just like the strange silence from the back of the van showed that Parker and Hardison were both occupied with this… what the hell _was_ this, at all? Breaking a window? Yeah, as if it was just that… not now, not when Eliot was finally coming together and looked better. _Felt better_. It wasn't the outburst of violence what was frightening her, it was… everything connected with it.

It was those twenty minutes of him alone in the bathroom.

Day after day, he was rebuilding his self control, and she dearly hoped this wasn't regressing back to those terrible two days after they brought him home, when he had no idea whom he might kill next, barely surviving the almost fatal shock and on the verge of completely coming apart at the seams.

She had waited silently in the background all those days, just watching, doing nothing, but she was there. If she was needed, she was able to react in a second.

Now, Sophie knew waiting time was over, even before Nate nodded to her before they entered the apartment. _Do your job_. She smiled at Florence who was restlessly cleaning up the broken glass, and softly tapped on the bathroom door.

"Eliot Spencer, did you lock yourself up in the bathroom, like a sulking teenage girl, or I'm misinterpreting something?" she asked lightly, with a smile in her voice, completely hiding her worry and fear.

Silence was the only answer for two seconds. "It's not locked," he said finally, his voice completely normal. "I'll be out in a few minutes."

This wasn't good. His defenses were all up again, and she'd learned that attacks were futile when his stubbornness built a wall that hid everything behind it. He would refuse to talk to her, or at least avoid any important subject. There was no way, even for her, to crush that wall, no weapons strong enough…the only hope was in sneaking around the wall unnoticed.

"No, you're not coming out," she said opening the door and stepping in, leaving the door half open. Her every word was loud and hard.

Eliot was sitting on the floor, resting his back against the bathtub, with things carefully arranged on the floor; scissors, tweezers, bandages and tape – he raised his head looking completely perplexed at the rude violation of private space; yes, there was a flicker of real anger in his eyes when she stepped over the line.

She quickly put a finger across her lips, and smiled. "I'm coming in, and we're going to talk," she continued in the same stern voice and then formed a silent '_hide me' _with her lips.

He just blinked.

She turned to the room behind her back. "Leave us alone until we come out," she said, and closed the door, cutting them off. When she turned to him again, facing his eyes, not amused at all, she shrugged and raised her both hands. "I'm sorry. I won't bother you, I'll just sit here, I won't say a word, I promise, you won't even notice I'm here."

"Sophie, what the hell are you-"

She slowly sat on the floor in her part of the bathroom, keeping the distance. "I'm tired, okay?" she snapped. "Tired of talking, explaining, and worrying – I want a little peace and quiet after tonight – and don't tell me you don't understand that. You're the only one who won't bother me with questions." Eliot tilted his head a little, watching her. "And, I wanted to see how you're doing," she admitted with a small smile. "Can't blame me for that."

"I am leaving as soon as I finish this," he pointed out. "You found the wrong place to hide."

"Trust me, you don't want to do that. Nate's talking with Florence-" she noticed a slight flinch at that name, but went on. "Hardison is half ready to run a post action briefing, still high on caffeine, and Parker is mixing ice cream with cereal. And they're all talking at the same time. It's bloody three in the morning!" She rested her head on the wall and closed her eyes.

She could sense his suspicion without looking at him. She also remembered what Nate had told them a few days ago when talking about Eliot: never, ever, let him smell your fear. She opened her eyes briefly, and smiled at him sweetly. "Of course, if you _want_ to talk about your feelings, problems and troubles, I'm all ears."

He just rolled his eyes.

"Thought so," she chuckled and closed her eyes again. "Thank you – I don't think I would have the strength for that now. Pretend I'm not even here."

Someone naïve would expect him to break the silence when it spread, but she knew him better, and prepared herself for a long rest. It _was_ comfortable here, she realized, feeling herself relaxing. The voices from the other room were just muffled background noises.

They didn't _need_ to talk. She saw everything she needed to see in his eyes the first moment she entered. Their precious time bomb had only vented the pressure, and returned to its usual ticking, a steady rhythm, not the alarmingly fast ticking of one close to exploding. He hadn't regressed to nothing, he was okay, but…

She _wanted_ to talk to him. She needed to feel his pulse, and count all the dangerous spots. Poking at them – only that way she could know how he was, really, and what was just pretending.

Being okay, and pretending to be okay because _they_ needed him to be okay, was sometimes very hard to distinguish. Especially with him; he had years of practice at hiding his bruises and making them believe that stitches were just a decoration. For a man who was sometimes so easy to unnerve, whose fuse was extremely short, and who would snap at them for minor things, he had the strange ability of covering up everything he didn't want them to see. And sometimes that was a large part of himself. To make him talk about That Night and about his recovery would be bloody impossible, maybe even for her.

At the moment he sensed she was anything except completely natural with him, earnest to the bone, he would close up again and she wouldn't get a second chance.

Sophie opened her eyes and peeked at him; his head was bowed and he was deeply concentrated on the tweezers he had in his left hand. She almost squinted seeing him miss his right hand with it – his hands were shaking so hard it seemed he would drop the tweezers. She'd seen that so many times in the past few days, and yet, it still hurt to see those strong, always steady hands betraying him.

Whatever he was doing, it was futile. Okay, maybe he wasn't as good as he tried to show, she thought, knowing his hands were still the main sign of his condition. Whenever he was lost in That Night again, he couldn't stop it. It was less visible as time went by, but still present, giving them all a useful warning, showing them when it was time to pull him out of it by whatever means possible.

"Talking is sometimes much less disturbing than staring," he said lightly, still not raising his head. Of course he knew the exact moment she looked at him. He sighed and put away the tweezers, then shook his head.

"Since I'm here already, I might as well help you," she said evenly. "What are you doing, by the way?"

He flashed a smile at her. "Synchronizing the shaking frequency. It's impossible to take out the small pieces of the glass when both hands are shaking in a different rhythm – I almost made them obey when you jumped in, after a long concentration," he produced a wry smile. "It was interesting."

She would bet it was – taking control of the involuntary shaking with pure concentration.

She slowly got up and went to him, sitting one step away for starters. He leaned back, she was already too close.

"C'mon," she rolled her eyes with indignation. "Let me see that. It's just a few cuts, for God's sake, nothing I haven't seen before." She held out her hand and waited, knowing too well that the problem wasn't with her helping him, or being too close, or holding his hand – it was the shaking and everything she could read from it. His shutting was almost visible, though he didn't move, or change his expression; for him, it was like voluntarily putting his hand into a trap, waiting for the spring to jump.

For a one long moment she thought he would refuse, but much to her surprise he tilted his head a little, holding out his hand and resting his forearm on a raised knee.

And just like that, all her weapons were down, with that simple gesture of trust. He let her see his weakness, something the hitter never did. The bastard knew exactly what he had done, he did it on purpose, and she hid a smile while taking the tweezers.

Never mind; she wasn't going to press him now. This was just a first step, and no matter what he thought about this, he had no idea that his wall was cracked. She might be slow to conquer a territory, but she never retreated from the position she won. She could only go further.

The cuts weren't deep, but she carefully searched every one for the glass, taking out small pieces. He probably regretted that he let her do this, because she felt him stiffening and the concentration he spent on trying to stop the shaking. His breathing was too even and controlled, his shoulders tensed as if he was ready to attack. She watched him falling into the circle – the more he was aware she could read every sign he gave out, the more signs he gave, and she could feel his anxiety rising with every thought.

"The fact that you're holding on much better than any of us never ceases to astound me," she said when he bowed his head and rubbed his forehead with his left hand. He looked at her through the hair, but she continued before he could say anything. "They don't get it, not even Nate – he is projecting his own fears and traumas onto you, and he's worried much more than he ought to be. The other two have no clue whatsoever – they are probably trying to figure you out through movie references. Thank God for that."

"Never argue with a grifter digging through your hand with tweezers," he said, and she chuckled, carefully putting away one small piece of glass. "But, what in your former experience can justify your conclusions?"

"I know _you_," she simply said. "You are the strongest one. And I don't let my own fears mess with that knowledge, like they do. You're doing fine – you settled all the important things in your head, because you know how to do it, you did it before." She felt a different tremor going through his hand she was holding, but the shaking moved slower. She could only imagine amount of the concentration he put into it. "Maybe it's harsh to say it this way," she went on, "but… dealing with the people you killed is not in numbers… it's a procedure. If you know the drill, you can do it over and over again. Just like every bad thing in life."

"You're not _completely_ wrong," he said carefully, his voice very flat and very controlled. She knew she was being observed and analyzed the same way she had done to him. "Good thing you didn't come here to _talk_ with me, or I would be in trouble. This hiding and non talking is good. Anything else you want to non-talk about?"

"In fact, I do." This time she looked him in the eyes, and let her gaze drift from his, returning it to his hand. "I have a… problem. Something that bothers me, and you are the only person who can give me the answer to my question, to explain to me... But not now, I can't… later. One day."

"Somethin' I did?" he frowned.

Sophie stopped every move for a moment, completely still, hesitating. "No. Something _I_ did," she whispered finally.

His surprise was expected. "Why not now?" he asked carefully.

"Because I can't think about it right now, when we are all still distressed, when we have this network shit to solve, and when I have to concentrate on Hardison. And Parker," she added quickly after one second.

And just like that, his hand was forgotten, shaking or not. Oh, she had his undivided attention now, and it wasn't a very pleasant feeling; his scowl deepened.

"I think that's the last piece," she said putting away the tweezers. "Give me that antiseptic."

"Sophie, what's goin'…?"

"Forget I said anything, okay?" she snapped, not too harshly, just to show him she wasn't satisfied with revealing that much, dosing it very carefully. "It's late, and I'm not thinking straight – I should've known better than disturb you with other people's problems. You have enough yours to fight. And no, I won't say more – you of all people should know what an invasion of privacy is."

He took one deep breath and held it – one more sign that escaped. He usually hesitated to do that, it was still painful, and she knew he was now going through all the possible trouble in his head. It was easy to stir up his paranoia and direct him away from his own troubles, to give him something else to think about. Because Sophie Deveraux knew how skilled he became during those few days, how perfectly he hid the drifting away, which was still too often.

She had spent hours and hours previous afternoon, silently observing his body language while watching the episodes, knowing every time he didn't see the shooting and fights, counting all the scenes that threw him out of today, returning him to That Night. Too many of them. And returning to present was a slow and tiresome process, masked by his weakness. It tortured him, it kept throwing him out of balance, and he spent too much of his strength on that. He was using everything he could do to hide it from them, and all of them were deceived. Except her.

He needed, still desperately needed something that would occupy his thoughts, and though this job was doing it better than she expected, it wasn't enough. Yet, there was one thing that Eliot Spencer couldn't control, and that was his protective instinct – instead of drowning in his own nightmares, he'd now use every opportunity to watch Hardison, maybe even Parker, trying to figure out what was wrong.

She felt a little sorry for them – but they _did_ need it, too. Damn, every one of them still did.

She finished with the antiseptic and covered the smallest cuts with band aids, the bigger ones with gauze, and all that time he just watched her.

"You see? Non–talking works perfectly," she said.

"Yep. I can't imagine what crap you would fill my head with if we actually talked," he said softly, and she broadened her smile. He had mastered his masks and defenses to perfection, but she never underestimated him, no matter how far in the background he kept himself, always behind every one of them, in more ways than one.

She tapped his hand, gently, glancing at his amused, but slightly annoyed eyes. God, she loved him so much – and she still felt pure happiness every time she looked at him, just because he was alive.

The moment she released his hand, he crossed his arms, resting on the bathtub again, hiding with immense effort the warmth that radiated from his eyes, too.

"You won't bitch me out about the window?" he asked gruffly.

She smiled. "No, I'm too jealous. I envy you, Eliot Spencer. I'd like to have one window for myself when I need to smash something, but decent ladies are not supposed to break things. Yet, you'll have to say something to Florence."

His eyes darkened immediately, and she felt her own eyes narrowing, and quickly returned the smile to them.

"She's okay," she carefully said. "Normal. I talked to her, you don't have to explain anything, just… well, smile. Be nice. Whatever," she trailed off, suddenly realizing how strange it was telling him what to say to the _woman_. Not just strange, it was unheard of – just as much as the grim edge in his eyes was, when talking about something feminine and cute.

"Yep, _normal_, I know. Don't worry," he grimaced. "Never scare the client, right?"

"Exactly," she quickly confirmed, making a mental note to think about that strange bitterness later, and gathered up all the things from the floor. "Only right hand, nothing else?" She almost asked him why he used his right hand that he had to spare as much as he could, but stopped in time. He just shook his head in response, still sitting.

She started to return everything to the cupboards, but she watched him out of the corner of her eye – he put both his hands on his tights and just stared at them. They were still shaking.

When he rose his head to her, with darkened, thoughtful eyes, she knew some decision had been made.

"Soph, when you come tomorrow, can you buy almonds?" he asked, and she blinked – it wasn't what she expected.

"What? I mean, yes, of course. How many?"

"As much as you can carry. And lots of powdered sugar."

Great. She thought he was finally deciding to do something with that damn shaking, and he was thinking about desserts. She sighed and shook her head. Men were…impossible.

"Of course. Almonds and sugar. Got it. The first thing in the morning."

He just smiled. And continued to sit there, not moving.

It wouldn't be easy for him to get up from the floor – she saw how pale he was and she knew that this outburst must have cost him more than he was willing to admit even to himself, much less to someone else, so she just smiled and finished with cupboards.

"Don't fall asleep there," she said opening the door. "Betsy will say we're torturing you."

"And you're not?" he murmured, barely audible.

She chuckled and closed the door behind her, letting him get up slowly, on his own.

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	10. Chapter 10

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"It's breakfast! Cereal for breakfast is a must-have!"

"It's not dawn yet, Parker, and you are going home in a few minutes, and get some sleep," Nate patiently explained to an unnerved Parker who filled a bowl with ice cream and cereal, enough for all six of them.

Florence had no intention of interfering in that, and it seemed Hardison wasn't planning on doing that either – he was going through data on the big screens, entirely absorbed in it.

Data that they _stole_ from her network.

She sat slumped in a chair, watching Nate and Parker arguing, but her mind was far away, lost in images of the police surrounding the apartment as they spoke, red and blue light flashing in front of McRory's, and jumping into the apartment and catching them all red-handed. She could see tomorrow's newspaper's headlines: FAMOUS TV AUTHOR'S HIRED GANG ROBBED HER NETWORK'S HQ. GUARDS STILL IN SHOCK.

The image was so vivid in her mind that she glanced at the window, half expecting to see flashing lights. At the _broken_ window.

She moaned inwardly, and changed the headlines: "3 POLICEMAN TORN APART WHEN ATTACKED BY A MADMAN WHO CAME THROUGH THE WALL OF THE BATHROOM. TV AUTHOR CLAIMS SHE DIDN'T KNOW WHOM WAS SHE HIRING. _They looked decent and nice, the accused criminal revealed in tears_."

The worst part of it, tomorrow… no, today, she had to go there, into the C4 building, to a meeting with the producers and press. The police would still be there, and it would be a classic instance of returning to the crime scene. She glanced at herself, at her shabby pants and old shirt she was wearing – makeup, a fancy suit and high heels would surely cover up all the traces of her spending the night plotting the robbery. Jesus, she was incapable of hiding the guilt, they would _see_ that in her eyes, they'd know she was hiding something, and if the police started to ask something, anything, she just knew she would-

"Florence," Nate's voice brought her out of the panicking thoughts. Just then she noticed they had stopped talking, and both of them were watching her.

"I have the meeting this afternoon in that building, and I have to go there," she said.

"Good. Sophie and I will go with you," he nodded. "We have to finish what we started."

And what the fuck have _we_ started, she wanted to scream at him, but closed her mouth.

"You…you…," she said, cleared her throat, and continued. "I'm aware I asked for this. I'm very grateful for what you did. But, I have no idea _what_ you did, and I'm too frightened to continue. Can we just stop doing it? I…I… I know you're criminals, and it's okay. No one will know, I promise."

"Nah, promises, promises… not good enough," Hardison said. "Nate, we'll have to kill her."

She slowly turned around and met his smile. Parker giggled.

"We _were_ criminals, once," Hardison continued gently. "We don't do that anymore. We just use slight the irreverence of the law while doing our job, and our job is to help people. You're human, ergo, you're people, ergo, we help."

"And we don't leave our job unfinished," Sophie stated behind her; she didn't hear her leaving the bathroom. The dark haired woman sat next to Nate, darting him a smile that caused him to nod, and then turn to her again. "You see, no one is stopping you, you can leave – yet, your series will die, and you'll die too. Those mobsters will continue to chase you."

"We can stop that by tonight," Nate finished.

Florence took one deep breath. Her mind was empty.

"And if you - what will be your next, slightly illegal step, in all this?" she asked wearily.

"Misrepresentation. No burglary, stealing or breaking into anything," said Ford. "That part is done, from now on the police will work for us."

She stared at him, knowing he wouldn't tell her anything specific, and not sure if she should be pissed off because of that, or grateful he was not involving her.

"In short, we are the good guys," Hardison finished.

"No, you're not," Florence murmured. "My characters are good guys – they obey the law as much as they can, they fight for justice, and they use their skills for good. But guess what, they're _fictional_."

Hardison looked at Nate. "What now, man? She just proved we don't exist. Maybe we should just disappear in a puff of logic."

"The point is, people don't change, unless they find Jesus, Allah, FSM or something else… which you surely didn't."

"She's right." Eliot's voice from behind almost made her squeak – _damn those people and their sneaking around_ – and she carefully glanced at him when he approached the table. He didn't look like a madman, and the band aids on his hand were the only trace of breaking the window.

"She is _not_ right," Hardison's voice went hard, but Eliot said nothing to him, slowly lowering himself in a chair.

"I'm sorry I scared you," he said. She was glad he didn't use _that_ smile, he was serious.

"It's okay," she smiled nervously.

"And I'm sorry I was selfish – next time I'll ask you to join me. There's plenty of windows left for both of-"

"Hey! Not in my apartment!" Nate frowned.

"And not in my building!" Hardison followed.

Florence nodded, hiding her smile. She meant to say something, but Sophie stopped her, waving one elegant hand in her direction. "Florence, sometimes you don't have to change. It's enough just to stop."

"People. Can. Change," Hardison went on. She knew him enough already that she could tell this was being said uncharacteristically harsh for him. He stared at them at the table for a few moments. _Here we go again_, she thought – another undercurrent in the room that she should try to solve.

"You're wrong," she said, not able to contain herself. "Mind set and character define you, and your behavior is written in your genes. You can think you changed, but if you're killer, that which made you kill didn't disappear, it's still in you, inside."

She was absolutely certain that choosing the word killer was a wise move, that she avoided all _their_ possible crimes – but when a frigid silence spread over the table, she just knew she blew it again. She should _really_ stop talking.

"Speaking of killers," Eliot was the first to break the silence. Only he seemed untouched by her words. _What, all the rest of them were killers_? "Nate, the Red guards-"

"Stop it," Hardison growled, cutting him off. "Florence, you may be right. Maybe people can't change." He sent an angry look all around the table, then continued. "But, people can _upgrade_ themselves. We all work on our basic Operating System, but we can choose what programs and applications we'll add to it. And we chose the way those will upgrade our OS. Some people end up with components that are incompatible, and burn their processor up, but if you chose wisely, you'll find those who will enhance your performance." He pointed one accusing finger to the group at the table, still frowned. "Don't tell me I'm wrong. 'Cause I'm not, and you know it. We all know what we've chosen, and what changes that made."

Eliot sighed. "That was so… poetic," he said thoughtfully. Sophie and Nate hid a smile, but Parker looked at Hardison with wide open eyes.

"You mean, when Eliot teaches me to shoot, I'll be upgraded?" she asked Hardison.

Eliot bowed his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. "I'm not teaching you to shoot, Parker. Ever," he said slowly, all traces of mocking gone from his voice. "So, Nate, the Red guards-"

"But it would be useful-"

"The fucking Red guards," he raised his voice, giving it vicious metal edge. "Decided not to call the police. The fucking Red guards said they don't have time to deal with cops, because they have to bring in the last three packages right after their shift ends!"

Nate tilted his head to the left, slightly narrowed his eyes and smiled. "That's… interesting," he said.

What the hell was that? Florence was positive that recording didn't have audio – but then she remembered with what concentration Eliot had stared at the Red Guards when they talked in the corridor. He _read_ what they said.

"They also said that Steve and the other two will be easy to persuade, because they are higher than them in the organization," Eliot continued. "It seems that Dvorak Security has dual employee lists – regular guys like Steve, working only on surveillance, and those like Red that are part of the mob."

"But if they don't call the police," Florence jumped in. "You said that the police will work for us after this…I don't get it. Is it important that the police knows about it, or is it better that they are not warned?"

"Both ways would work. Plan A went fine, but ended with the second part of Plan B, with a slight touch of Plan C," Nate explained, obviously thinking that was an _explanation_. "The results of all of them are good for us. Eliot, anything else? Any details about the packages?"

"Nothing, they turned around after one minute and followed the rest out of the corridor."

She had to find out more about tomorrow, and she waved an impatient hand in front of Nate. "Why are only you and Sophie going with me?"

"Because three of us are not necessary."

"And what you will do?"

"Talk to people."

"About what?"

"Things," the bastard actually smiled. "Don't worry, we'll go together, but we'll separate when we arrive, no one will connect us to you. You see, if you don't know anything, you can go with a free conscience and say you don't know anything, if asked." Nate glanced at his watch. "Okay, that's it. Go home, get some sleep – it's already too late. We'll continue after everybody gets some rest."

Hardison and Parker went first, and Sophie followed shortly after Florence told her she didn't need her there during the night to feel safer. Just after she left, she reconsidered her decision, when an awkward silence spread over the table where the three of them were still sitting.

No, she wouldn't start any conversation, not about That-whatever-you-say-it's-wrong-Night, nor changeable-nonchangeable-killers.

"I'll sleep on the sofa tonight," she stated shortly. If _that_ hit some undercurrent, well, that was their problem. She was too tired to care. Besides, it was her second night here, and Nate should sleep in his bed. "Orion won't go upstairs," she added, pointing at the white fur on Nate's shirt. He changed twice today, she noticed, but in vain. That stopped any argument he was preparing, and he just nodded and left, with a tired 'good night'.

Before she could start regretting her decision, Eliot got up from the table.

"You won't mind two laptops turned on? Hardison's is set on surveillance cameras, and I have something to do on mine."

"Sure. What are you doing?"

He squinted before he turned around. "I have a pumpkin field to take care of," he sighed, going to the bed.

Florence just hid her smile.

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When something hit her nose, Florence sleepily rubbed her face. The second 'something' made her turn over, dragging the blanket along, but the third forced her to open her eyes. She turned onto her back and stared into the darkness, having no idea what was happening. It took five seconds before she remembered where she was.

The fourth tin foil ball went over the back of the sofa, falling almost vertically to her nose again, and she rose up, pissed off. She peeked over it, at Eliot who was sitting in his bed with both laptops, one on the table by the bed, one in his lap. He gave her the sign to stay silent, and waved to the stairs.

"Go get Nate," his whisper was barely audible.

What the fuck? She opened her mouth to send him to the most obscene place she could think of, but then she remembered that he probably couldn't climb up those stairs, at least not fast. Right, fighting killers he could do, but walking? Nope, suddenly too demanding. She murmured something unrecognizable, dragging herself from the sofa. It wasn't the most comfortable place she'd slept in.

Her mind cleared a little in those few steps she made; he wasn't waking Nate up to make him coffee. _Something was happening_.

She hurried up the stairs, burst into Nate's room and shook him violently, not thinking about all the possible risks of alerting the eventual non-changeable killer. "Wake up! Eliot is calling you!" She didn't wait for an answer, just for him to open his eyes, then turned and went back. She was barefoot so she didn't make any noise when she stormed down the stairs, but she surely was breathless and half panicking when she landed safely after almost stumbling and breaking her neck.

"Thank you," Eliot smiled over the laptop. "Would you be so kind and make some coffee, sweetheart?"

For the second time in thirty seconds, Florence opened her mouth to send him to… and of course, she closed it again. He had the same hypnotic calm in his voice as Jethro did that time he said, "I don't want to worry you, but that strange noise _might_ mean our brakes just locked." She could never understand how clever men, and this was definitely clever, thought they could get away with that shit.

Unless that voice was the way they calmed _themselves _down, she thought with an evil grin.

Nate coming down the stairs spared her from answering that, and instead of coffee, she went to the dining table and brought herself a chair.

"What's happening?" Nate's disheveled appearance would have fooled her, if she hadn't heard his voice, completely awake and very concentrated.

"Just one visitor this time," Eliot turned the laptop toward him so he could see the screen, and Florence grabbed the chair and circled around the bed to place it near Nate. The familiar corridor was empty. "He just went into B2. Hardison took care of the cut off power and telephone line, but he didn't have time to do something with the door. This one came ready to repeat the previous night, but he found a broken lock. Now, he'll see that the apartment is abandoned and empty."

"Is that a good or bad thing?" She had no idea what to think about it, her mind still half sleeping.

"Could be both," Nate said. "It's showing that they won't give up – and don't forget, they returned to the crime scene and broke the police seal, and that's very risky. They _really_ want that recording. At the same time, they'll see you're definitely not there anymore, and they'll have to widen their search."

Eliot put the corridor recording in the upper left corner of the screen, and pulled up three other screens that Hardison had left open, checking the nearby cameras.

"You think he's not alone?" Nate asked.

"I would be," Eliot said. "But he probably has someone waiting in the getaway car somewhere close."

Nothing moved during the next two minutes, they both just watched the recordings, and Florence shifted uncomfortably. "Do you still want that coffee?" she asked when she thought her eyes would close. Eliot nodded, and she noticed Nate's quick sideway glance at him. Just then she realized Eliot wasn't sleeping at all, the second night in a row. And he didn't change back into the pajamas, he was still in the sweatpants and shirt.

She knew sleeping disorders well, when deadlines caught up with her and when she was living on coffee and Red Bull, writing maniacally 20 hours a day, but this man had nothing similar that would keep him awake. He just… stayed awake. And according to the reactions of the others, that wasn't something they welcomed. Whatever was happening, she noticed, he was the center of their attention, and everything they did was adjusted to him. That was intriguing, she had to admit to herself. She was watching them from the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to be ready, thinking they'd forget about her and start talking more openly.

Of course it was a fool's hope - after just five seconds of her staring, Eliot raised his head and looked at her, and she barely had time to make herself busy with cups and sugar. They stayed silent, as if they didn't have anything to say to each other now that she wasn't near, as if she was the reason they talked at all.

When she returned with the coffee, Nate sat on the table, glancing at the other laptop with a very confused expression.

"What?" Eliot asked, not taking his eyes from the live feed. "I learned how to make my farm look 3D, with fences. Betsy is proud. Now, come here and find out how to record this damn feed."

"Hardison is not recording that automatically?"

"How the hell should I know that? You mean you don't know either?"

"Nope. Try pressing that butt-"

"Are you nuts? You can't go and press random things, that much even I know. He would bitch for hours. Florence, do you record your door camera on your laptop, or it does it have its own… something?"

She moved closer to see the interface. "Nope, my something looks different than this something. I wouldn't try anything."

"And there he goes…" Eliot said when a man carefully came out of B2, putting back the broken seal. "New face, not one of those two."

"If my power is up, I can go and check my camera to see if it continued recording," Florence said. "It's a slim chance, but-"

"No," Eliot cut her off shortly.

"When this guy goes away, it won't be dangerous to just quickly-"

"Nope. Maybe tomorrow. Not now, not tonight, okay?"

"Okay," she agreed, but only because it was clear he thought he had to go with her, and he wasn't looking forward to it.

Nate said nothing, just rubbed his face, looking at them both with unreadable eyes.

"So, he searched the apartment once more, right, and that's it?" Nate said lightly. Florence immediately caught that tone; strangely, it seemed Eliot didn't, he returned to eyeing the interface as if Nate didn't say anything. That only sharpened her attention.

"He won't come back tonight, if that's what you're asking," Eliot said after a moment's pause. "You both can go back to sleep now."

"I don't know why we were woken up at all," Florence said, suppressing a yawn.

"Just in case – if this wasn't just one more search, I wanted you awake and able to react, if necessary."

"To react?" she blinked. "Two of us? How?"

"He means, able to hide, or run, or lock ourselves up," Nate explained, with not a completely pleasant voice. Eliot just smiled at that.

"What if they knocked on our door? Why aren't you armed?" she grumbled at him.

He froze. She could _see_ his mind going blank – the feeling she knew too well – as if seven different answers ran through his brain at the same time, and clogged at the same place.

"He doesn't like guns," Nate said shortly.

"I don't like going to hairdresser, too, yet when I have to go, I go," she retorted. "When the need is dire, one must protect himself – or the people around him. Liking or not liking that doesn't matter."

Eliot turned to her as if he was about to say something, but then he looked at her hair, and small smile played over his face. Oh. Now it was her turn to freeze. Why had she mentioned the damn hairdresser, _why_? She knew that the left side of her hair was completely pressed against her head, and the right side was going in all directions in messy spikes – one of the many advantages of having a short hair cut.

"Don't," she threatened through gritted teeth.

"I would _never_," he said solemnly, but the corners of his eyes were crinkled in a hidden smile.

Nate cleared his throat.

"In case you didn't notice, he left. We should all go to sleep," Eliot said, pushing the laptop into Nate's hands. He pulled the blanket over his waist, crossed his arms and waited. "I'm tired," he finished gruffly.

"Right," Nate said softly, getting up, leaving the laptop beside the other on the table.

Florence didn't wait to see why Nate was still watching him so thoughtfully. "Good night," she said and went back to the sofa. Nate followed in one minute and disappeared upstairs.

And of course, she should have expected it… she couldn't sleep.

The blue laptop light wasn't the problem, it was her mind, running around in circles. She stared at the six giant screens, dead and dark on the wall – the sofa was facing them. It wasn't that she was aware that Eliot was still awake – the back of the sofa was a shield that guarded her from his bed, right behind it, under that very strange picture on the wall. He couldn't see her at all.

All this shit mixed with her ideas for future episodes, as she drifted off and on again, with the five of them in New York, and her seven in Boston, in this apartment – even on the verge of sleep she was amused by her own thoughts; keeping them separated sounded like a good idea. She got to know the five enough to know that that meeting would be a slaughter, on so many levels. But it would be such a great episode to write, a damn clash of the titans. How the hell could bad guys do good by doing bad things? When she figured it out, she would find a way to incorporate that in her series – if it was possible at all.

A soft click from somewhere by the door stirred her and brought her back to reality; she held her breath, listening. Eliot must have heard that, she thought, but Murphy's Law always hit hard. He could be sleeping by now, completely out.

Without any sound, still not breathing, she slowly rose up – his bed was empty. The clicking sound she heard was him at the door, leaving the apartment.

Okay, he went to check her peep hole camera, she thought sleepily, _nothing to worry about_. He just didn't want her along and she could understand that.

Right at the moment she turned around and decided to keep her eyes closed, she heard another sound – this time it was Nate, picking up the laptop from the table. He wasn't as silent as the rest of them. He went to the kitchen and she heard the clinking of a bottle and a glass.

The other one would return in a few minutes, then they'd talk again, and she deeply regretted that she offered those sleeping arrangements. Her watch showed it was four in the damn morning, but sleep was now too far away. She sighed, wrapped herself in the blanket and joined Nate at the dining table.

"Maybe he's sleepwalking," she murmured sitting in the chair, but she got only a twist of his mouth as a response. He tried to smile, and failed.

"What?" she asked, knowing she wouldn't get an answer. She was right. She looked at the laptop to check. Nothing on it, just an empty corridor – Eliot was clearly in her apartment, and she almost smiled picturing him trying to figure out her interface.

Silence spread and she rested her back on the chair, watching Nate watching the screen, and just then she realized how tense he was. He didn't hear him leaving, but he knew Eliot would wait for them to fall asleep and do this. And something about that wasn't quite right, according to his silent attention.

"If you knew he was planning this, why did you leave, why didn't you say you'd wait here until he returns?"

He hesitated a moment before he answered. "Sometimes it's better to not interfere with other people's choices and decisions, and let them think and decide on their own. Especially when it's-" he bit his lip, and she knew he knew exactly what Eliot was doing. "Especially when it might affect… never mind. It's better this way, okay?"

"Okay," she said, remembering she didn't see Eliot actually _entering_ B2 – he maybe wasn't even there. When they were at the C4 building, Nate said Eliot wasn't able to climb down the stairs, and what if he went to practice? At four in the morning?

She tiredly rubbed her eyes. Maybe all of them were watching over him because he was mentally disabled, she thought bitterly.

An idea formed in her mind, and she got up and went back to the sofa and the small table, where he left his earbud before he went amok on the window. It wasn't there. Great, she didn't notice him being less than a meter from her, and she was _awake_.

"He took his earbud with him," she said to Nate when she returned.

"Well, that's an improvement." Nate's smile was wry. He tented his fingers, elbows on the table, and continued to wait, watching the empty corridor as if it was the most exciting thing in the world.

She joined him in silence, taking care not to close her eyes longer than a second – as the minutes crawled by, it was harder and harder to keep them open. Before she could carefully suggest that Eliot might pass out there, wherever he was, and that they should go and check, he appeared on their screen. He _was_ in B2, and her confusion went up a level.

Nate's relief was almost palpable, though he didn't move.

Eliot didn't look surprised when he faced a greeting committee. He leaned on the kitchen counter with one shoulder, almost invisible in the dark room lit only by the laptop.

"You should have been sleeping," he whispered breathlessly. "This matter is easier to discuss in the morning… in the light." He kept his hand on the counter while coming closer; he didn't stop there to watch them, he was collecting the strength for the two small stairs.

Florence kept her mouth shut. His words scared her as much as his voice, but when she saw what he carefully put on the table, right before their faces, she froze completely.

The bomb still had wires in it – a strangely small black package with the timer that radiated a threat even when disarmed. The visitor wasn't searching for the recording – he planted this to kill her if she returned.

Nate didn't even glance at it, he just finished his glass in one long sip. She remembered his words now; he knew what Eliot was searching for.

Eliot leaned on the table with both hands, clearly keeping himself upright, and Florence could recognize how deeply exhausted the man was when she saw new dark shadows beneath his eyes.

She definitely didn't want to be here when Betsy came again, she thought, trying not to look at the black thing on the table.

"Don't touch it… it has a switch on it," his whisper was raspy and tired. "And don't let Parker play with it."

Nate just continued to look at him.

"No, I _shouldn't_," Eliot replied to the words he didn't say. "There was no point in you standing there in the hall… waiting and worrying. Restrain your control issues, Nate."

"The team, Eliot," Nate's first words were slow and accented, his voice brutally clear. "Do I have to remind you of that, _again_? We watch each other's back."

"You just did," Eliot slowly pointed at the laptop. _His_ voice went very low. "As close as I would allow you, anyway."

Florence squinted at the enormous amount heat this short exchange created, and she didn't know where to look while two of them stared at each other, pissed off. No, she corrected herself; they weren't pissed off, this was something much worse. Silent rage radiated from the two men, one hot, one cold. She settled her gaze on the bomb – it actually calmed her down.

Eliot shook his head and took one deep breath, then slowly straighten himself up again. "Go to sleep," he whispered and turned around.

They both watched him going to the bed; he stumbled by the shelf, but regained his balance and reached the bed, yet he didn't lie down, he collapsed onto it. Florence bit her lip, unnerved. He fell face down and didn't move, his immobility was unnatural, and his arm was hanging off the edge…

Nate poured another drink.

"Don't," he said shortly when she started to get up. "Let him be."

"He is unconscious, you know that, right? That's dangerous, we should-"

"I know. That was kind of the point of these two insanely exhausting days."

She couldn't believe his calmness. "We should call-"

"Betsy knows. Let it go, Florence."

Jesus, they were all insane. Completely, utterly, fucking insane.

She clutched her blanket like a shield, took one deep, calming breath, and hoisted herself up. "Good night, Nate," she said. He nodded, staring at the glass.

Rude.

She almost growled when she heard – again – quiet steps.

She gathered all the blankets, ready to cover herself up – no, to burrow herself deep under them so she couldn't see any of them going, coming, leaving or entering, the damn lunatics - but before that she looked over the back of the sofa one more time.

Nate's profile was bluish from the monitor light; he was sitting in the chair by the hospital bed with his legs stretched out, glass of whiskey in his hand, silently watching over the fallen man.

And she knew she would never be able to understand all the invisible ties that bonded these strange people.

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	11. Chapter 11

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"If you do that again, I'm not responsible for my actions. Step. Away. From. Him."

For crying out loud, couldn't she wake up, for once, just once, to a normal morning, with coffee and breakfast, and _silence_? Florence sighed, opening her eyes. Eliot's voice sounded tense, and she slowly sat up, to see what the hell was happening now. The prospect of mafia killers having broke into the apartment only made her grumpy, not scared – she was so pissed off that she would deal with them all by herself, just to return to sleep for a few more hours.

"Meow?"

"Don't you meow at me, it's not working. I said move."

_Shit_. She jumped up, facing Eliot and Orion who were staring at each other; the man in the bed, the cat on the table, switching his tail. Orion's right paw was in the air, he was reconsidering the odds; when he heard her getting up, the paw went – again, obviously – into the soil of the plant that was placed on the table. With a victorious jerk, he pulled, and the soil went all over the table. She knew the exact amount of triumph in his eyes when he looked at Eliot.

A soft chuckle from the dining table located Sophie, with a magazine and coffee, fresh and beautiful, with her hair falling on her shoulders in perfect, shiny locks. When, for god's sake, _when_ did she have time to look so awfully… impeccable? Florence ran her hand through the mess on her head, and went to save Orion. Or Eliot. Or kill them both. Whatever.

"Glaring the cat down doesn't work, Eliot," Sophie said. "It just makes it interesting for him, and encourages him to do it again."

"I thought that only applied to Parker," he murmured, hitting the cat directly on the nose with a foil ball.

Florence hurried up when she saw the triumphant look in Orion's eyes – one more human bent to his will, forced to play with him.

"Sorry about that," she grumbled, picking the cat up. Orion flapped his paws trying to catch the plant, but she put him on the bed and distracted him with the other balls. When she looked at Eliot she quickly changed her mind, rolled one ball onto the floor and sent the cat after it. He looked as if he was barely able to keep his eyes open, and a cat jumping all over the bed was the last thing he needed right now. His oxygen mask was on the bed, near his hand.

He just motioned it was okay and closed his eyes, so she moved away to gather her things and to go to the bathroom.

Orion was still busy with the balls when she returned, with Sophie's help, so she joined her.

"Eliot told me about our visitor," Sophie said; the bomb was now sitting on the newspapers, as if there was nothing strange about having a bomb on the dining table. Maybe for them it wasn't strange. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm getting used to this; one more reason for concern." She heard the sound of a shower above their heads, and she glanced at the bed, knowing that Nate would soon join them. "It was pretty intense between the two of them because of that bomb," she finished in a low whisper.

"You don't have to whisper," Sophie's voice went just one nuance lower than usual. "He can't hear this – we've found the exact volume that can't reach the bed. Plenty of time to practice in the past few days. And don't worry about them bitching at each other, it's a usual thing."

All of this was normal for them, obviously. Sophie was dressed in a fancy dark suit and dark red silk blouse, and it was only – she checked her watch – six hours after she had left the apartment, in the middle of the night. And she looked like she was ready for the exciting day.

"I brought you the things you asked for, and put them in the kitchen," Sophie said to Eliot, slightly raising her voice. "If you need anything else, tell me now so I can direct Hardison to get it. He's on his way."

"Thanks, Soph," Eliot responded. "Nothing for now."

He sounded as bad as he looked, and Florence frowned – quieter or not, their voices would be constant background noise and he wouldn't be able to rest. But if they didn't pay any attention to that, she shouldn't as well.

Yet, she wasn't quite able to keep her mouth shut, ever. "More than ten days have passed since he was shot," she said reluctantly. "Why is he still so…not well?"

"Because the bullet isn't what's problem here," Sophie said quietly. Damn, those dark eyes were so disturbing when she eyed her, deciding how much to tell her.

"I don't get it," she said, confused.

"Well, it _is_ a problem – he took a bullet in the chest, and that would have killed any other man, but…" Sophie smiled and shook her head. "It's just… we've gotten so used to thinking he's indestructible, that him going down shook us all. So we weren't surprised when he got up on the third day and went to finish his job. I think that deep inside all of us expected that – no, worse – to be honest, we _welcomed_ it because the indestructibility was back, and the world was in order again. We thought we would just grab him after That Night, bitch him out a lot, and he'd continue to recover in peace," she entwined her long fingers and looked at them for a moment; when she raised her head again and looked at her, her eyes were even darker. "Well, we were wrong. He paid for getting up, heavily," her voice turned bitter. "When we finally caught up with him, we were almost too late. Betsy said it was a question of minutes – his blood loss was almost fatal, he was in severe hypovolemic shock, balancing on the verge of organ failure and brain damage for one entire day. Oxygen deprivation. It's only been six days since we were sure he'd live… and only three days since he got up for the first time. If he was only shot, he would be almost okay by now – but those complications messed up everything, he's too weak. If the situation was normal, Betsy would keep him in hospital for weeks now."

"What's stopping her?"

"The hospitals are still full of people that fought each other That Night."

"And it wouldn't be wise to let them see the man who was very active in making that happen?"

Sophie slowly tilted her head and smiled. So, _that_ was the piercing look she wrote so many times, and her actors only managed to make it look as if they were shortsighted… Florence smiled and shrugged when Sophie said nothing. "Look, my mind works in plots and scenes – the situation you were in only had several ways of being solved, and pushing your enemies to fight one another is the most economical. I would write something like that if I was not bound to heroic actions with a lot of explosions and car chases."

"To know a little about something is more dangerous than to know nothing at all, dear."

Nate coming downstairs stopped her from answering, and left her wondering if Sophie's words were a warning, or just advice. She might have written dangerous and life-threatening situations… but this woman was living them.

"Good morning, Eliot, good morning, George," Nate said passing by the bed, and got some growling as an answer. _Who the fuck is George_? She dearly hoped Nate wasn't greeting that picture that hung behind Eliot's bed.

Nate was wearing an awfully cheap gray suit, and his hair was greased and pulled back from his forehead. Only somewhat dull eyes revealed that his night was as exciting as hers was.

"Ready for our final dealing with Michael Wright, Florence?" he asked fighting with his tie, so Sophie helped him. His voice was also quieter than usual.

"No, I'm not, I have no idea what's going on. But you obviously are ready."

"Yes we are," he smiled, running over the implied question. "Or, we'll be ready this afternoon. You said it's an afternoon meeting, right?" He turned to the bed pulling his tie, ruining everything that Sophie did. "You won't make any lunch today, Eliot?"

"Are you trying to piss me off for some reason, or are you just bored? Do I look like I'm able to make. fucking. lunch?"

"So, that's no, right?" Nate looked surprised when Sophie slapped his hand away and tightened the tie again. "The three of you will stay here – do you want Parker to make something?"

The gasp was heard very clearly. "Order a pizza, for god's sake, food poisoning is the last thing I need right now."

"That's just hurtful," Parker said calmly, mouth full of cereal.

Florence slowly turned to the girl that was sitting on the counter enjoying her breakfast, surprised mostly by her own lack of surprise at her materializing from out of nowhere.

"You _are_ aware that you're not allowed to get up for the next nineteen and a half days, if we calculate in the twenty three point five hours of rest that Betsy ordered in past two days which you disobeying her?" Parker continued very sternly, with no trace of a smile. "I was _thinking_, Eliot."

"Dear God. Take me with you. I can lay in the van."

"Nope," Nate smirked. "We'll eat out after we finish with Florence's meeting. We need fresh air, walking in the breeze, sun on our faces…"

"I would snap you in the half if that didn't mean there would be two halves of you being smart ass bastards at the same time," Eliot growled. Florence noticed that he put his mask on after replying – the conversation was over.

Nate's smirk disappeared when he sat down at the table and she realized he was testing him to see how he was doing – and it seemed that he wasn't happy with Eliot not trying to get up, or even sit in the bed.

These people _worked_ together. She tried to imagine how her coworkers would take care of her if she was in a similar situation – she was very close with all her writers and that crazy bunch when they were shooting – and she knew they would probably close her in her trailer and bring her lunch, only staying briefly for awkward talks full of uncomfortable silences.

These people, all of them, had two different minds working at the same time, one for the present situation, and one adjusted to him, monitoring his every move without pause.

Hardison's coming interrupted her musing before she came to a conclusion; he rushed in holding his tablet, full of awful, unnatural energy – morning people were very rare in TV business.

"What? Nobody knows, or cares, what's happening in the big world?" His grin was broad and almost catchy. Almost. "Shame on you," he threw his jacket over the chair and pulled something from his pocket. A small package. "Orion, come here!" The cat was ignoring him, but when he threw the entire box of ping–pong balls on the floor, Florence was sure Orion wouldn't stop chasing them for the next two hours.

"I see you were all sleeping like babies," he continued, grabbing the remote and turned on all six screens, with full volume.

Eliot put a pillow over his face.

Hardison switched two channels before he found what he wanted to show them, and Florence gasped when she saw A BREAKING NEWS UPDATE, in red letters over the screen.

A young woman was in front of the statue near the lake and talking into the camera: "_Michael. R. Wright, 69, CEO of the C4 Network, was arrested this morning after police searched his home and office and found incriminating material connected with children pornography. Wright was caught in Operation Red Hood__that the police ran over five months, when he uploaded data to the one of the sites that police monitored. We are now in front of the C4 building, where the police continue to collect evidence, trying to find his connections to other suspects in this case. Authorities believe that he is just one link in the giant chain_-" Hardison lowered the volume down. "That's enough. The things are in motion."

"But he is not a child porn-" Florence stuttered. "You did this, you _planted_ that – I thought you were stealing information _from_ him. What- why- This isn't collecting evidence for a case!"

"With our way of obtaining the evidence, it couldn't be used in the court," Nate smiled. "We needed the police to collect it themselves, without us interfering in that. An anonymous tip wouldn't work, and we had to draw their attention to him, and push them into action. Hardison knows all the police cyber actions, and child pornography is the one that's immediately answered. The important part is that everything that's in his office, all the data, documents, info and connections with other people, is now being noted and investigated. Hardison left one little back door for him, in case we need those charges rejected."

"He ordered the murder of my friend, and tried…is trying… to kill me," Florence stated firmly. "I don't care if he is charged with that, or something else, as long as he pays for it." She thought for a second. "Wait. It's over now. That recording he wanted is now irrelevant; the police will have much more on him. He won't try to kill me anymore."

"You didn't ask how it would stop the cancellation of your show."

"Would you answer me if I asked?"

"Not yet," he smiled. "Because the problem with drawing police attention to him with the child pornography is that they'll search only for that kind of info in his data. They probably won't even notice the irregularities in his reports to the board directors and his communication with reality show's producers won't be suspicious either. His deals with the producers, either."

"You're trying to say that you can bring him down, but you _can't_ save my show?" she bit her lip and tried to look brave. "It's okay. More than I expected – I thought no one could stop him from anything."

"I didn't say that. I said I can't answer that question _yet_."

She sighed, she just couldn't stop herself. "Okay, I'll wait. In meantime, he is in jail, so that means I'm free, no one will try to kill me anymore, no more mafia killers in our corridor," she smiled while saying that, but felt strangely empty thinking she would just return to her apartment and… leave them? Right, as if she ever was a part of it, anyway – she was just a problem that they quickly solved.

Hardison pulled a bunch of papers in plastic binders out of nowhere and threw them to Nate. "Choose – there's plenty of everything." His grin faded a little when he saw the bomb on the table. "What the hell is that?"

"A bomb," Parker said calmly. "I wouldn't touch it if I was you, it can be armed again with that switch. We're lucky it can be turned off again after you turned it on… accidentally."

Nobody dared to ask her to explain, and the silence lasted a few seconds, interrupted only with a barely audible 'told ya' so', from the bed.

"Okay, it seems I wasn't the only one that didn't sleep last night," Hardison said flatly. He went to the fridge, bringing a bottle of orange juice, and in a minute he and Nate were deep in an unintelligible conversation about something technical. Parker was eyeing the bomb, Sophie listened the other two, going through the papers that Hardison had brought, and Florence had enough time to sort things out in her head.

They had removed a threat in two days and one action, and put the guilty behind bars with ease, relaxed and having fun – she would have needed more time to write it down, than they needed to act it out. Their usual jobs obviously were much nastier if this one was so easy.

Her relief was dampened only by the uncertain destiny of her show, but she put that behind her now, concentrating only on the thought that she was free, and there was no need to fear anymore.

She needed to get ready for the meeting but she had enough time and it was nice to sit here, drink coffee and enjoy the relaxed atmosphere – even though one of them still had a pillow on his head.

However, the door bell ringing ruined that atmosphere in a second; Florence could see the exact moment they all remembered that Betsy was coming. This time they didn't even try to pretend nothing had happened. Parker's face turned dark and cloudy, as if she held herself responsible for not obeying Betsy's orders. Jesus, if Eliot's tiredness from the last time triggered that wrath, what would she do now, when he was completely worn out, and his hand was wrapped up?

Strange, the only bright face in the room was Betsy's.

She must have noticed their caution, there was no way she couldn't, but she greeted them cheerfully, again with that tender smile that she remembered from the last time.

"He did it again, didn't he?" she softly asked when Sophie offered her coffee.

"I'm right here, Betsy, leave them alone," Eliot called to her before any of them could reply.

"Of course, sweetie, be there in a second," she said gently. Hardison almost choked on his juice, and even Florence stopped her coffee half way to her mouth. She had never, ever, heard something so terrifying.

Parker looked at her with something close to adoration in her eyes.

Eliot said nothing.

Betsy waited one more moment and looked at Nate, and Florence could swear that for a second she saw a demonic glint in her eyes, before she made them all velvet again when she moved to the bed.

"Look at that poor little thing," she cooed when Eliot looked at her with aghast eyes, sinking in the pillows as deep as he could.

"What's wrong with y-" he had to clear his throat before he could continue.

"It's okay, sweetie, I know, I know… sometimes shit just happens, right? It's not your fault," she smiled tenderly and ruffled his hair. "Let me see that hand. Does it hurt?"

Florence quickly got up and collected her bags that Parker provided, psyching herself up. "I have to prepare for the meeting... may I use the upstairs bathroom?"

Nate just nodded, obviously fascinated by Betsy creeping the shit out of Eliot, and Florence stormed past the bed with one encouraging smile to him. He looked like he needed it. The last time she saw the same look in somebody's eyes, was when they shot Vin approaching a Claymore mine to disarm it.

She went upstairs, and closed all the doors behind her, cutting off any voices from below.

She took her time, finally completely alone, though she didn't have time for a long bath. In the end, choosing and trying on what to wear took longer than the time she spent in the bathroom, including drying her hair.

She chose a warm brown jacket with a matching short skirt, knowing it made her hair glow like the sun, and made her brown eyes bigger. The emeralds in her ears and on her neck were brighter than her green shirt, as green as the touch of it on her eyelids. When she made her hair flow back in natural golden waves, tucked behind her ears to open her face and let it shine, she knew she was ready. Impressing her business associates was always a big part of every negotiation, and now, when she had to pretend she knew nothing, it would add confidence she didn't feel.

Okay, maybe, but just maybe, she also wanted to show _them_ how she looked when she wasn't a messy bag with bad hair. She started down the stairs – it took seven stairs before she admitted to herself that wasn't them in question, it was _him_. They didn't smile at her hair, barely suppressing a joke. Eliot did. Now he would see her hair could look just fine, thank you very much.

She waited a second before climbing down, listening.

"Look, I don't need the damn Happy Aquarium." Eliot's voice sounded normal. "I don't want any new games."

"Why not? You fill the aquarium with fish, you breed them, they swim, you put plants and decorations in it, exchange gifts-" More importantly, Betsy's voice sounded normal, without that creepy softness. Their storms had passed pretty quickly, and it seemed that the rest of the crew was more terrified of her than he had been.

"And stare at them, hypnotized, until my stress levels go down? Fish go left, fish go right, fish go left…" he laughed. "C'mon, give me some credit, I know what you're doin'. Staring at fish won't calm me down, trust me."

Betsy sighed heavily. "Idiot. Okay, no Happy Aquarium. For now."

That sounded safe enough, she could join them without any danger of jumping into the middle of a fight.

In the end, she had no idea if he noticed the hair or not, because at the very moment she reached the floor, she realized that she had jumped into something much worse than a fight - right into Betsy changing his bandages. He was sitting in the bed, _without a fucking shirt_, with only some white linen across his chest, and she quickly turned her head towards the screens. "Oh, sorry. I thought you were done. I'm moving away," she said quickly, keeping her head turned away, passing by the bed to the dining table. She didn't even hear what Betsy answered.

She sat, not bothering to join the quiet conversation, determined to finish her coffee before they went out, and mentally going through all the important things she had to discuss in the meeting.

Yet, her fucking concentration was betraying her; she had looked directly at him only for a moment, and nevertheless, the image was in front of her eyes as clear as if she stared at him for hours – every muscle, every line of his shoulders and arms, as vivid as if she had recorded it. _The man was a fucking sculpture_. And she could tell, though she had no idea how the hell she knew that, that those muscles weren't made in the gym – there was nothing pumped up and artificial in them, they were made by using them.

Fuck, she wasn't… okay. She was, _maybe_, a little attracted to him. There was something appealing in his eyes and smile, something that made people look twice. He was intriguing, and dangerous, and the strange behavior of the others when he was in question definitely added to the mystery. And that was all. She was happily married, she desperately missed her husband, and one conman, no matter how good looking he was, was just like those pretty guys in the magazines - they caught your eye, made you look twice and admire them for a moment, but after that you simply turned the page.

Florence grabbed her cup with both hands and concentrated on Hardison who was still explaining some gibberish to Nate. Out of the corner of her eyes she noticed Sophie was watching her.

She turned her head and avoided her eyes.


	12. Chapter 12

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Watching the first two episodes of the second season, something that was supposed to be just a way to kill time before they headed to the C4 building, ended in disaster, and Florence didn't have even the slightest clue why, or how.

Parker was nervous. After Betsy left, she went to Eliot and barraged him about minutes and days, and all the things he wasn't supposed to do – for a moment, between hissed words, Florence thought she mentioned something about heads in boxes, but she decided she had simply misheard – and on the top of that, Parker continued where Nate had stopped last night, and bitched at him about the bomb.

Eliot was patient with her for two entire minutes, but very soon his voice turned into a permanent deadly growl.

Hardison jumped into the fight at the very beginning, trying to stop Parker and making them both more nervous with his attempts to divert their attention, but when Eliot went nasty with his replies, he continued trying to stop him. After both tactics failed, he simply got mad and hissed at both of them, equally – of course they both turned on him in response.

Nate and Sophie were too clever to interfere, though Sophie had the pained expression of a peacemaker who knew when not to engage in already lost battles.

At some point even the mysterious George was mentioned again, Hardison pulled the 'a punch that I owe you' card, Eliot's snarled sentences that were full of 'idiots', and Parker yelled about 'a special angry place.'

Nate chose that point to stop it – he slammed the binders on the table – and Florence noticed he didn't try to talk to them first.

"Guys," he said tiredly. "Enough of this shit already. If you want to fight, wait until we leave."

"You're not leaving for two hours, and we are mad _now_," Parker stated logically, causing a few exasperated sighs. "What?!"

"I said, enough! Hardison, start the second season – all of you – on the sofa, watch it. Eliot, you don't have to if you can't-"

Eliot was up before he finished his sentence, and Florence took a few seconds to admire Nate's tactics. It seemed that when mad, even conmen weren't immune to reverse psychology.

Eliot went to the sofa and took its right end, and Florence suddenly realized she would be forced to watch it with three pissed off individuals who would continue to fight over her head. _Or over her dead body_. She looked helplessly at Sophie and Nate, and Sophie sighed.

"Nate, bring chairs, we'll all take some time to relax. It's not like we're in a hurry, we have more than two hours," Sophie said joining them. Florence was very happy that she managed to catch the outermost left corner, leaving the middle of the sofa for Hardison and Parker – but they both refused to sit by Eliot.

It seemed that Parker didn't want to sit near Hardison either, she changed places twice, and finally got up, grabbed her by her shoulders and lifted her on her feet. Florence could only gasp – her grasp was like steel, and her fingers dug into her flesh like hooks, without any effort. Parker just moved her and placed her by Eliot, and repeated the same procedure with Sophie who ended up pressed between Parker and Hardison.

The sofa wasn't that big, and five people on it… this promised to be even more weird than watching the first copy of an episode while sitting on a stack of pizza boxes. Pizza boxes didn't growl lowly from her right side, nor radiate manic energy from her left.

Eliot turned a little to look at the sitting arrangements, but when his eyes went over her face, he visibly flinched and frowned. Well, the twitching and grimace _wasn't_ exactly what she expected when she got her hair done.

"Parker," Eliot said, in a warning, low voice. His eyes were still on her face and Florence thought of a casual remark about that discrepancy, but thought better of it and just sat very still.

"Yes?" Parker sang from her left.

"Give them back."

One hand stretched from the left, with an open palm – and her emerald earrings in it. Florence reached up to her ear; she couldn't believe that Parker had lifted her earrings without her noticing it. "I have trouble putting them on, the catches are very small. How did you-" She bit her lip and put them in her pocket. Parker just smiled at her, and frowned at Eliot who sighed and turned away.

Nate put his chair to the side of the table so he could see them all, and the screens; Orion happily walked over all five of them, choosing Hardison for his bed, and the first episode of the second season began.

"The main theme of the second season is Family," Florence said carefully, moving her earrings from the left to the right pocket, just in case.

Parker snorted in disdain. Hardison sneezed. Eliot crossed his arms and scowled.

She decided to keep her mouth shut.

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Sophie was definitely right, Eliot decided when it took only one smirk to piss Parker off and set her on the lunatic ride, and when Hardison gave up on calming them down after only one minute. The hacker didn't even try the kicked puppy eyes on Parker, and that was alarming, as if he _wanted_ to argue about nothing.

Their usual fights were short and fiery, and they burned out after a few replies, yet this one… when he decided to push them a little to see how they'd react, he forgot to think about how to pull them back, how to stop it, and all the shit got out of control. He also forgot that he wasn't playing with a full deck as well, and it took much less than he thought for him to become angry too. Sometimes he thought that keeping one calm place in his mind was easier in the middle of morphine hallucinations, than with those two.

Was he really so self absorbed that he didn't notice something was wrong with all of them? _Well, don't answer that_. Of course he was.

When he arrived, Hardison had that glow he radiated when the con was going well, when he had been sucked into cyber space, working hard on whatever he was working on, but he also looked tired. He had noticed that last night; the hacker rarely needed coffee to keep him awake, the orange stuff did that well. He should've known then that wasn't normal, but he let it be. A mistake.

If there was something going on, and they kept it from him, heads would roll. He knew how many ways this Chilean shit could spread over them again, and involving Don Lazzara wasn't so clever if they wanted to avoid that, but he was pretty sure Nate would tell him that. He might not be able to do anything, but he knew more about that matter than any of them. _And wasn't it just a relaxing thought_?

He had also been observing Sophie since she arrived, but that was a dead end. The damn grifter knew how to hide everything that was bothering her very well. He noticed only that she looked tired, which was surprising indeed knowing she was up way too early for her. Yet, he knew her slip of the tongue in the bathroom wasn't an incident, she did it on purpose, and if Sophie thought he should pay attention to Hardison's and Parker's behavior, that meant something.

Parker had been angry at him these past two days, okay, he could understand that. An angry Parker might unnerve Hardison too – angry Parker would even unnerve meditation stones and set them spinning in the air – but there was something… miserable… in their behavior. In normal circumstances, a good, quick fight would only made them grin evilly; now they looked bitter and hurt.

Damn it, he definitely wasn't the right person to feel anybody's pulse, not now, not ever. His _slight_ touch, it seemed, only successfully stopped the circulation.

He only managed to piss them off and ruin everybody's mood, unnerve Nate and scare Florence again. He sat on the sofa, frantically thinking about how to repair the shit he'd done, starting with Parker as the closest one, but then Parker threw Florence beside him. There was no point in fixing anything with her over Florence's head, so he as well might start with this one first. With a little luck, he would be able to fix the entire sofa, one person at a time.

He cast one sideways glance; yep, definitely scared again. She was sitting with her back stiff, not leaning against the back of the sofa, and her hands were on her knees as if she was sitting in a dentist's waiting room. Scared, nervous and tense – and what the hell he was supposed to say to her to make it better? He could compliment her appearance, or makeup, or her hair, but she was a fucking client and that sort of conversation wasn't meant for clients. Her hair radiated a sweet scent that distracted him, and he moved away all of the three inches that he could. He slowly lifted his right arm and put the elbow on the armrest, so he could press his forehead and stop the headache. _He could've been sleeping now, if he was clever_.

The first episode started with explosions and flying cars, with high pitched screeching sounds that didn't help, and continued with the gathering of all seven, and he didn't come up with anything to say beyond: _Gee, what a nice explosion_. Maybe he should just give up and watch in silence, 'cause the way the things were going, he could only make everything worse.

Nate put his feet on the table and started to rock in the chair, and his eyes casually swept over the sofa. Though his eyes weren't on him any longer than on everybody else, he knew that the bastard sensed his lack of concentration, and he suppressed urge to tap his fingers on the armrest – sarcastic comments were the last thing he needed right now.

When Nate turned back to the screens, he peeked at the others – sulking and tense, with no signs of relaxing or improving their mood. Poking at them now might prove to be a very serious mistake. Yet, it was his fault they were all miserable, and he ought to do something. He took one deep breath, and cleared his throat. Nobody paid any attention to him, they were all staring at some crying girl on the screens, though he could feel a slight shift of attention around Sophie. He couldn't be sure, though, she was barely visible behind Florence and Hardison.

He sighed again, and shifted uncomfortably.

Sophie's head slowly turned in his direction. _Fuck_. Was there anything he could do, think or feel, that could go unnoticed? They were worse than sharks – to draw a shark's attention, one had to bleed in the water – for them, it was enough to rearrange his feet to make himself more comfortable, and they all were looking at him like a pack of hungry velociraptors. He should run back to his bed and leave them all to calm down by themselves.

For the last time, he tried to concentrate on the screens – there was dramatic music, four of seven had thoughtful expressions, the other three looked like they were constipated and in severe trouble because of it – _yep, two of them were shirtless for no apparent reason_ – and there was some waiting for someone to say something that stretched to eternity, with the camera rotating crazily around all of them, which made his headache stronger.

This was starting to piss him off, seriously, and the sooner he said something, the better for – he reached over and lightly touched Florence's forearm, to draw her attention.

She screamed, jumped away and landed in Hardison's lap, followed by an outburst of music that reached the crescendo. Chris Larabee said something important. Orion hissed and jumped over Parker's head, Nate almost fell when he lost his balance, and Sophie narrowed her eyes.

_What the hell just happened? He just_-

He sighed at the five aghast stares, full of fucking _accusation_.

He stared back for a second, then looked at Florence. "I wanted to ask you about your hair conditioner," he said evenly, trying not to blink.

"What?!" Florence squeaked, freeing herself from Hardison. "What the fu - hair conditioner?! They were just deciding to fight for - we were all waiting to see – and you startle me with _hair conditioner_?!"

_Breath in, breath out_. "Well, Nate's bathroom doesn't have any-"

"What's wrong with you, really?" Parker hissed at him. "We missed their decision!"

"Excuse me, but nobody told me that today is NotCommentingOnEpisodesFuckingFriday!" he growled. "Yesterday ya'll didn't stop babbling for five episodes!"

"It's not Friday!" Parker rolled her eyes.

"Babbling?" Florence choked, and he barely stopped himself from burying his face in his hand. He _knew_ he should have kept his mouth shut.

Hardison was looking at him like he just chewed off Parker2000's left wheel and spit it into his lunch.

"Chris said, 'let's do it'," he pointed out. "What the fuck he could say when that girl was crying, huh? As if you didn't know that he'd say that. What's the big deal, why can't a guy ask about damn conditioner without all this consternation?"

"It's Garnier," Florence said coldly after a moment's silence. "Avocado oil and shea butter. Happy?"

"Extremely," he growled, "My life just stopped being meaningless, and the world is in order again. _Thank you_." He crossed his arms and returned his gaze to the screens. So much for polite conversation that could ease the atmosphere – damn idiots. They were fucking crazy – _and don't pretend you didn't know that_ – and this one was catching up with them pretty damn fast. Speaking of bad influences, yep, she had to spend _more_ time with Parker and Hardison, that would surely improve her mental state. The poor woman had been _normal_ when she came.

After one huff, Florence carefully sat back, Parker stopped darting him angry stares, and Hardison started the episode again, shaking his head with a sorrowful grimace that made his blood boil.

Sophie gently shooed Nate from his chair, chasing him onto the sofa between Parker and Hardison, and took it for herself. He refused to acknowledge her lazy smile. _Damn grifter_. It was all her fault.

Fucking drama queens, all of them.

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Florence spent the rest of the episode trying to decide whom to grab like Parker grabbed her, and put him or her in her spot on the sofa. Nate was out of the question, Hardison looked too heavy, Parker would bite her head off if she tried, and that left only Sophie. Somehow, she was reluctant in the beginning, and the more time that passed from Eliot's outburst, the more stupid she would feel doing that.

She drew herself as far as she could from him, almost sticking herself to Hardison, who as a response moved closer to Nate, and it ended with Parker being pressed against the other end.

But she couldn't stop herself from nervously biting her nail. _What the hell was wrong with her hair conditioner?_ She cursed her short locks because she couldn't bring a whip to her nose to smell it, not that she would do that so visibly, and she tried to figure out what the man had against her hair. More importantly, why did he have to tell her that, so subtly masked with an innocent question.

Hardison's sneezing gave her one possible answer – what if he was allergic to avocado, or shea butter? He surely sat as far from her as he could… but he wasn't sneezing.

She definitely didn't need a reason to feel miserable before going to the meeting, nor she should spend her time there looking at her hair to see what was wrong with it. Maybe it was simply ugly to him. She sternly decided to throw that shit out of her head and concentrate on the screens, and it worked.

The end of the first episode was good. She was always damn proud of the first and last two episodes of the season, they were very important for the audience and ratings, and the second episode that was just about to begin was maybe her favorite of all. The drama, angst, internal conflicts, fights inside the group, betrayal and lies, and her most favorite part - one part of the group turning against the other.

It only took ten minutes before she sensed a shift in the atmosphere. _A disturbance in the Force, right at the end of Act 1_.

She enjoyed one of the most beautiful dialogues she have ever written, where Vin and Chris, in a painful, emotional and very ugly talk seemingly ditched one another and broke the group in two, tearing apart all the bonds that tied them. Both actors gave Oscar-worthy performances, showing all the turmoil and pain with every beat of their hearts. Then she noticed that Eliot wasn't watching it at all. He stared at the coffee table, his forehead resting on his fingers.

The sofa started to tremble. Parker shifted nervously, tapping her right foot on the floor, and in only few seconds it became so fast that Sophie had to lean from her chair and tap her gently on her knee to stop it. She never would have thought that Parker could be so moved by somebody's acting, she would bet that Hardison would be the one that would tear up a little. He looked emotional enough.

She cast a sideways glance to the left, completely ignoring the rudeness on her right and she met a stone cold, barely breathing mask, who studied the coffee table was as well, unable to rise his eyes to the screen. Hardison's face was _ashen_.

Uh–oh.

She checked the coffee table, just in case, but there was nothing interesting going on on it.

At the moment Vin drew a gun on Chris – and damn, she admired how he had his eyes full of tears and managed not to shed them – Hardison jumped to his feet, stopping the recording.

"We should continue this later, you're forgetting traffic jams," his voice was flat and empty. "You should leave now if you want to get there on time." With that he turned on his heel and went away.

"Yep, you're probably right," Nate said rubbing his temples, head bowed. _Looking at the coffee table._

"You're acting stupid." Eliot's voice was a quiet rasp, but it worked on Hardison as if he had yelled.

"Stupid?" he hissed from behind them. "You know what? _Fuck. You_. Enjoy your episodes, I have more important things to do here!"

For a moment Florence was sure that Hardison would share the window's destiny, judging by the way Eliot tensed like a spring. "Toughen up a bit, will ya', asshole?" he snarled.

"No, thanks – I've seen the _results_ of that kind of toughing up. Leave me alone."

Parker's foot started that crazy dance again, and for a moment that was only thing that could be heard in the silence.

Florence had no idea what was happening, but this wasn't, definitely, friendly bickering, and her stomach went cold. That damn episode obviously hit close to home, stirring up old quarrels, and somehow she knew that pointing out the happy end wouldn't work to solve this.

Parker was only one who was still looking at the screens, though the recording was stopped; a close plan of Vin pointing the gun at Chris, with all the pain on his face, frozen in the moment before he pulled the trigger – and looking at her pale face and eyes glued to the screen, Florence started to understand a few very important things.

Sophie's eyes gave her the final answers; she watched the younger three with dark shadows that hid deeply burried sorrow.

"Maybe we should take the two of them with us, Nate," Sophie stated quietly. "I'd rather not leave them all-" She stopped when Eliot pushed away the coffee table and stood up in one quick, absolutely non-weak move. He shot a glare at her and moved away without a word.

Florence quickly checked; he wasn't going to the windows, he went to the bed.

By the time she turned to them again, Parker was watching Nate too, waiting for his answer.

He crossed his arms and continued to look at that damn table, and the silence spread for a few moments more, before he finally almost smiled. "No," he said. Florence could recognize the final word of the one who was making decisions. "That shit has to be solved, one way or another. We have a job to do. They have shit to solve. Simple as that. Get ready."

That wasn't the brightest idea, she wanted to say, but she had no words in that matter… yet if she didn't feel that leaving three dangerous people in the same room, people that had just _fuckyou-ed_ each other and went to opposite sides, _wouldn't_ lead to explosion, Nate and Sophie should know that even better.

Parker curled herself into her corner of the sofa, but Nate ignored Sophie's pleading eyes, and hoisted himself up. He picked the binders off the dining table, where Hardison sat with his laptop and tablet, and just left, without a word to any of them.

Sophie and Florence had no choice but to follow him, leaving behind a room full of silence.


	13. Chapter 13

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Chapter 13

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Nate was driving, and he and Sophie had put Florence between two of them. She caught a glimpse of the strange things in the back of the van, but she was too nervous to go there and explore ideas for her vehicles. She wasn't sure if Nate was joking when he said they would go to dinner after the meeting, and walk in the sun. Afternoon was slowly crawling by, evening would be there before they turned back, and the dark clouds that were gathering above them were promising rain. Not exactly a good time for walking anywhere.

"This is ridiculous," she finally said, when the silence became unbearable. "I simply can't go tiptoeing around things. Okay, you were in serious trouble. Okay, you have unsolved issues that are complicating everything. But tell me, how am I supposed to tiptoe around something that I can't see, and don't know what it is?" She stared at Nate's profile for a second. "Tell me what to avoid, and I'll stop poking at it, and stop causing trouble. Is that too much to ask?"

"It isn't," he said with a grim smile, shifting gears. "I'm afraid, if all the rest of your episodes have this kind of tension, we're in trouble."

"Do you want me to put the motives and subplots on paper, so you can scratch out the disturbing ones, and add a Parental Guidance rating to it?" She knew she sounded bitter and too sarcastic, but she didn't like the feeling that it was all her fau-

"It's not your fault, Florence," Sophie said from her right side and she almost cursed.

"Stop doing that!" She exhaled one long, nervous breath, running both her hands through her hair, remembering too late that it obviously looked awful already, and she moaned in utter frustration. These people were driving her nuts. She looked in the rear mirror – her hair looked perfect. _Great, so Eliot was intentionally ruining her mood by simply lying, insulting her hair_- she tried to concentrate back on the issue; these grifters didn't need to distract her from the main theme, she was doing that all by herself. She tucked the hair behind her ears and that reminded her of something. "You're not wearing your earbuds, are you?" That meant Nate knew this conversation would be inevitable. She calmed down in a second, put her hands in her lap, peacefully, smiled, and waited.

His irate glance showed her that he could trace her last thoughts almost perfectly. Sitting between the two of them was worse than having a screwdriver stuck in each side of her brain.

"We are, at the moment, very unstrung, all of us," Nate said slowly. "While Eliot was at the hospital we barely slept at all, only the four of us covering the entire Massachusetts General, twenty-four hours a day. That Night was a mess of horrors, full of fear and stress. Driving, shootings, panicking, all over town. The days that followed, when we brought him home, were just different, not any easier. That stress and fear accumulated and is still very present; our nerves are thin, and only a little reason is enough to stir up all the anxiety and bring all that shit to the surface. To bring all the _pain_ to the surface."

She was definitely fooled – everything he recounted she saw only as tension from time to time. One more reminder not to underestimate them.

Nate sighed, keeping his eyes on the road, but when she didn't say anything, he continued. "Eliot decided he had to solve the problem without us because that cartel shit was way out of our league," he said. "We didn't know that he figured out we didn't leave town like he had told us, that we were guarding the hospital he was in. He knew he had only a few ways to make us leave, this time for real, so he…" he trailed off struggling to find the right word. "His talk to Hardison was a painful, angry, acrid speech full of insults for all of us – much worse than that one you wrote. He ditched us and quit. We knew why he did that, and Hardison got it too, but the only way to make a lie hurt someone is to make it as close to the truth as possible. That talk still stings – it was just a week ago, and none of us have recovered yet. We are… let's say, extremely vulnerable at the moment. Pain and emotions are still simmering right under the surface, and only a small spark is enough to start a fire. As you witnessed. "

"But that was it, right? He didn't shoot him? Hardison ran when Vin pointed a gun-"

"No, he didn't. I don't think Eliot would be able to do that." Nate darted her a calming smile. "He shot Parker."

Jesus. Maybe they weren't watching over him because they were worried, maybe they simply were trying to predict any sudden moves in their direction. She sighed. It wasn't fair to think like that, and she knew it wasn't true either.

"Why?" she whispered before Sophie could jump in with, _no, we weren't trying to predict any sudden moves in our direction, dear_.

"She tried to stop him. He knew we would all die if she succeeded; he had to finish the job. So he removed the obstacle and cleared his way."

"Ah," she said with a small voice. "Anything else I should know when we watch the episodes?"

He thought for a few moments and she noticed his hands clutched the wheel harder. "If any of your heroes are severely shot, with a lot of blood, I want to see that first, before any of them take a look."

"He would be upset? I find it a little hard to belie-"

"No, _he_ wouldn't."

The answer was short and she said nothing further.

It wasn't the time to ask what Eliot had done to the two of them – he might tell her.

Half an hour later, when Nate stopped the van disturbingly close to the spot where they'd parked while breaking in, the first strike of thunder cracked the sky above them. She hoped that wasn't an ominous sign of some sort, took a deep breath, and got out, into the gust of cold wind that lifted every single hair on her head in all directions.

_So much for the hair conditioner_.

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Eliot was extremely satisfied with Hardison's recent practice of sulking in silence when in a bad mood, because it gave him more than one hour of calming himself down. And he fucking needed it, his blood was boiling. It would be nice if he knew _why_ the hell he was so pissed off at them, their stupid reactions, their beating around the bush instead of attacking the problem right at the head and solving it… okay, he just answered it, right? He knew Hardison would just bury all of it again, calm down and start to behave normally again, and all this shit would explode at the next first chance.

He couldn't see Parker at all, she was below the sofa's back, but right after the three of them left, she went to the kitchen and brought popcorn and stuff, probably more cereal. Her moving under their line of sight was a good clue as well, and he could expect more trouble from her than from Hardison – her anger was not as easy to calm and the passage of time usually only strengthened it.

Whatever he thought he would, could and ought to do, he had to calm himself down first. There was no point in adding fuel to an already burning fire, so this sulking time was good, after all. It gave him enough time to concentrate on his own reactions and control his short temper.

He removed two pillows from under his back, laid down and closed his eyes.

Fuck. He could meditate and drift away in spite of the loud music and cold in Ziegler's cell, but he couldn't concentrate in this _silence_. Even Orion was peacefully sleeping on the shelf. Calming his mind only brought all sorts of shit into his thoughts, so he quickly gave up on meditation, deciding to just lie down and rest. And wait.

Yet, waiting was torturous as well, because it only reminded him that all he had been doing these past few days was fucking _waiting_. He was forced to wait those damn walls down, and every day only seemed to add another layer of brick to them. The wall in front of him, behind his back, in every damn direction he turned and tried to go, a wall after the fucking wall. Whatever he tried he couldn't get past them – it simply didn't work. This was much worse than that awful feeling of being trapped in his own body back in the hospital; he broke out of that prison in three days. Now he simply _couldn't_.

He didn't have enough strength to force his body to do things it ought to do; he couldn't walk more than three damn minutes without his knees buckling out of weakness; he couldn't control his hands, his mind, his growing rage at everything, his breathi- yep, definitely… he couldn't even calm his breathing when he wanted to, when he laid down to calm. the. fuck. down.

He slowly reached for the oxygen mask, hating himself because he still needed it.

Okay. The first attempt to relax ended in hyperventilation. _Good job_.

Time for another hour of this shit.

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The meeting with the writers, producers and network staff was a damn disaster. They didn't know about Wright's announced cancellation, and Florence tried as much as she could to keep it that way. She had only told Jensen Daniels, her co-producer, because he and his production company owned the rights for the show.

It wasn't a pleasant surprise when he announced he had a new show with C4, some bounty hunter crap doomed to die before the third episode. She kept the smile on her face, listening to all the congratulations, wondering if that was the reason for his careful warning for her not to go into open war with Wright and C4 before they knew exactly what was going on. He had promised he would do anything to help her keep the show alive, but now his attention would be split – and his hands might be tied because of his new deal.

He also carefully avoided mentioning that the actors' contracts, signed for five years, were going to end this week, and that nobody had told them yet what would happen to their jobs. She also, and that hurt the most, noticed that none of them were asked to audition for that new pilot.

The rats were leaving the sinking ship before the fight even started. But could she blame him? Business was business, and moving on to other projects was a regular thing – yet it left a bitter taste in her mouth. Maybe it would be easier if he wasn't so nice to everybody, so open to the fans, so reassuring that he was doing everything he could – and the fans weren't stupid, they had been suspecting things since all the other shows on C4 got new seasons, and only the decision about M7 was postponed. With his right hand he was sleazily patting the fans' heads, and signing the new contract with his left.

He had no idea what would happen when the news broke out and the fans figured out his role in everything… and he would face a boycott of all his future shows. Karma was a bitch, and she was more than willing to scratch his name from her future contacts, and let _her_ deal with him.

Her lips were set into a permanent thin line when she said her excuses and went directly to the office of the President, Jules Brewer. She knew he would be there today, though the Board of Directors weren't meeting this week – he usually spent a few hours a day in the office when he wasn't in LA. She wondered what he was thinking about the arrest of his Vice President and Head of Programming.

His secretary, Sandy, politely asked her to wait a few minutes when she arrived at his quarters, explaining that he had arranged a meeting with police due this unfortunate situation with Mr. Wright, and Florence sat in the lobby to wait, preparing all her questions.

"Good day," a well known voice greeted her and she lifted her head, staring directly at Nate Ford, in his cheap suit, with a derisive smile that changed his face. He scratched his ear and nodded to the secretary. "Tell Mr. Brewer I'm ready."

"Of course, Lieutenant Webster, you can come in."

Nate repeated his move with his ear and she finally got it, sneaking her hand into her pocket to grab the earbud, staring at his back when he went into the office.

Jesus Christ, what were they up to? The unease that had followed her since they'd left the apartment now abruptly transformed into anticipation of disaster. So that was what he meant when he had said that the police would take over. _Misrepresenting, right_.

Breaking news: _TV author involved in police scam, caught red handed while her gang was working on her president. The rest of the gang found dead in gang HQ, authorities believe they shot each other. A cat survived._

She buried her face in her hands, and waited.

It seemed that the silence did nothing good for any of them, it only emphasized the turmoil felt in the room, and Eliot gave up on relaxing, keeping himself concentrated on trying not to get more nervous.

He could clearly hear the distant thunders, coming closer after every fifteen minutes, and the electricity in the air, the sign of an incoming storm, matched the indoor drama perfectly.

Hardison gave up after endlessly clicking on his laptop – his eyes were closed but he could clearly hear him getting up from the table, and taking his jacket. He left everything else, so this wasn't going home, this was just running away from the tension. The hacker would probably end up in McRory's with a glass of something heavy.

Eliot really envied him on that part.

With one third of the source of the tension gone, he expected the atmosphere to clear slightly, but that didn't happen. Parker was still invisible, except for one small whip of hair sticking out of her ponytail; Hardison's absence only added to the pressure he felt everywhere.

But, the hacker's absence moved her – and he couldn't say if it was a good or bad sign.

Parker's footsteps were lighter than a falling feather, as always, but he could guess where she was without opening his eyes. She went to the table that Hardison left and stayed there for a few minutes. Just when he thought she wouldn't return to the sofa, she moved again.

She wasn't going to the sofa.

He didn't feel any threat in her approaching, but just the thought of endless bitching and arguing tensed him immediately, just after he finally managed to relax a little, which completely pissed him off, ruining it even more thoroughly. With only three of Parker's steps, the whole hour of careful relaxation went straight to the hell.

He opened one eye, checking on her with a quick glance. _No forks, no tazers, no bombs. __Good_. She only had Hardison's laptop with her.

Then he got a better look, and stopped breathing.

Parker was fucking _drunk_.

It took seven seconds before he remembered to breathe again, drawing in one sharp, shallow breath. She wasn't going into the kitchen for cereal, she had taken Nate's bottle; he tried to remember if it was full, and how much whiskey was left in it, but his brain was stuck in something close to panic. In five years he hadn't seen her drinking anything except a light beer or some wine, very rarely.

Jesus, Parker drunk, it was worse than Superman on an LSD trip – two chocolates made her high - she didn't need a fork to be deadly. He barely breathed, carefully examining her bloodshot, sullen eyes, her slight swaying – and it was painful to see her so off balance, it was… so damn wrong.

Slowly, very slowly, not breaking the eye contact, he raised himself into a semi-sitting position; he was too vulnerable on his back. In case he had to move very fast, he had just bought one more second. Not making any sudden moves, he lowered the blanket a little to free his hands as much as he could.

He didn't have an earbud and he was sure Hardison didn't have his either, and he regretted it deeply. If ever in his life, a panicked call for help would be justified _now_. He didn't dare to glance at his phone that was on the table _– never let the opponent guess your next move –_ and he just remained completely still, waiting.

Her eyes were unreadable. He couldn't read her silence.

He quickly calculated a few possible moves - if she tried to smash the laptop on his head, he had three ways of avoiding that without hurting her, and five with a hit and twist combination.

She came one more step closer and carefully lowered herself on the bed, pushing the laptop in front of him. He_ didn't _flinch, he was just rearranging his position.

One of the surveillance cameras on the laptop showed Hardison sitting on the floor in the corridor, just a few meters from their door. _Idiot._

His first impulse was to curse and jump up, but then he remembered the threat from the mobster killers had been removed with Wright's fall, so Hardison's move wasn't _that_ stupid and reckless.

He looked at the image for a few more seconds, to show her he obediently followed her moves and that there wasn't any need to get violent, and tried to think about how to deal with _this_ threat.

Well, that _threat_ put away the laptop, curled herself on his left side, and _hugged_ him.

He couldn't help it, for a moment he had a disturbingly vivid image of Parker with a crazy grin, his jugular hanging from her mouth, but he quickly shook that off. He expected a quick, clumsy hug; she was capable of giving those sometimes, rarely, but she stayed immobile, burying her face in his neck. So he sighed and hugged her back. With his left arm around her back he _did_ have better control of her eventual change of mind.

"It doesn't work," she said, slightly slurring. "It helps Nate, right? I have to ask him how and what this does exactly to help. I'm dizzy and my knees are weird. And words are coming out different."

He wanted to solve the shit he caused, and it looked like he would have a chance. _Be careful what you wish for_, he reminded himself morosely.

"How much whiskey was in that bottle, Parker?"

She concentrated. "Don't know. Full?"

He almost asked her how much was in it now, but what was the point? He just sighed and held her close, hoping she would fall asleep and spare them all the trouble for the next few hours.

She was silent for two minutes, but he knew there would be no sleeping, she was tense and stiff as a spring. When she finally lifted her head a little, so she could see him, her eyes were narrowed, concentrated.

"I still don't get why shooting you to stop you would be wrong," she finally whispered.

And for an explanation she came to the one who actually _did_ that? Well, it even made sense, in some awkward way.

"I can only tell you why it was the right thing to do in those circumstances," he sighed. "To find out what's _wrong_ with that, you better go to Hardison."

"I did, we talked. He explained everything, and it sounded logical and true – but I still don't _understand_ it. Why it's wrong. I'm not-" she stopped and shook her head, covering her face with her hair. Hiding. "I'm not normal," she finished shortly. "Right?"

He knew what Hardison would say, and how, and he wished he was here instead of him. Sophie would deal with this in a matter of minutes – even Nate would be a better choice than he was. But she came to him.

"No, you're not," he softly said.

She didn't lift her head and he couldn't see her face, but she moved away a little.

"You would be extremely boring if you were normal," he continued calmly. "Can you imagine yourself without all the things that make you – you? You would be just an empty shell. Lifeless."

She peeked at him under the veil of hair, and he almost sighed in relief – she seemed only interested, not upset. "She isn't boring," she stated cautiously. "And she is normal. Awfully normal, like The Normal. And she definitely isn't _lifeless_."

Oh fuck. Florence had been too close the past two days, not like the usual clients, and Parker had enough time to observe her and draw conclusions on that comparison… and when he tried to see Florence through Parker's eyes for just a moment, all the differences she could find, his throat tightened. It took an immense effort of will not to let anything show on his face.

"I could be…" she continued, strangely hesitating. "... if my life wasn't one giant mess from the beginning, I might-"

He quickly grabbed her hand and pulled her closer. "Stop it." He couldn't let her say _that_ – if she managed to say it out loud, all the failures, all the missed opportunities, all the lost chances for a normal life would become real. "Parker, you would die in that sort of life, trust me. You would whither, not knowing why and how, and you would never be happy."

"You don't know that."

"I do. Trust me." _Jesus, Sophie, where are you? _He kept his stare on her, not letting her eyes drift away, when a new terrifying thought got stuck in his brain. "Parker, you _do_ like Florence, right? Do you have something against-"

"I like her," she huffed with indignation. "You know, I _am_ capable of liking people other than you morons. She is nice. Or she is very good at pretending I'm not a freak."

"Freak, my ass – there's no such thing as a completely normal human being, Parker. The only difference is that many of them are more skilled at hiding it."

"Do you want me to count all differences between her and me, between her and my life, between-"

Hell no, that would be disaster; he had to distract her as soon as possible – damn whiskey only sharpened her brain, for God's sake… "Wait, stop it!" He grabbed her by her shoulders and shook her lightly, knowing it would spin everything around her. He was right, she kept her mouth shut for a few seconds, eyes glazed.

"You're not different, darlin'," he went on when she started to breathe again. "You two are the same quality diamonds, but you were shaped to fit into different necklaces." Her eyes widened a little, interested again, and he quickly continued. "She is a brilliant cut, that reflects the most light, the most popular of all the cuts and shapes… but you're the Navette cut. Much more difficult to make. For me, and not just for me, it's not the material that matters…it's the time and effort someone puts into creating it."

"The Navette cut has fragile ends, and it's extremely hard to cut," she objected, frowning at him.

"Exactly," he smiled.

"And the brilliant cut is round, not elongated like the Navette; it can be put into many neckl…" she trailed off, thinking, then nodded. "Okay, I got it." When she looked at him again, she had a smile in her eyes. "You know, the Navette's ends might be fragile while being cut, but when finished, they are sharp points. Put in the right necklace, that protects its shape; it can be a very dangerous weapon, if necessary. It can cut through any-"

"No, Parker. Just precious, and unique. Let's skip the 'dangerous' part for now, okay?"

"Okay," she smiled then snuggled again. She giggled once, and he knew she was thinking about the diamonds, so he hid his own smile and just lay motionless, letting her be there as much as she wanted, keeping her close.

It didn't last long, she rose again after a few minutes of quiet humming – this time didn't improve her balance at all, for she swayed again when she tried to get up. She just gave up, leaned over and grabbed the laptop, pushing it in his face again. Hardison was still sitting with his head resting on his raised knees.

"You have to do something," Parker said seriously. "Make him feel better."

"We should wait for Sophie, darling. I'm not in the mood – hell, I'm definitely not the right person to talk to someone who needs calming, trust me on that. We can't-"

She moved the laptop away and nudged him. "Go. Bring him back."

He looked at her unhappy face – and Parker's unhappy face was something utterly disturbing, always – and tried to remember if he was able to say no to her when her eyes looked twice as big. Yes, maybe twice, he said no when he sensed she was faking it, but there was nothing fake in her sorrow right now. She needed her world in order, and she wasn't good at dealing with changes. So he decided he would listen to her last demand, to bring Hardison back – that he could do. Making him feel better could wait for Sophie.

"Why don't you go?" he asked her.

"Not normal, remember?" she smiled wryly. "The last time I tried motivational speech, he got more scared. I don't do _people_."

"You just _did_ people," he raised his little finger. She almost smiled.

"Well, I wish I tried that the last time, instead of taking the gun first," she said. Damn, what did he have to do to stop that shit about shooting each other… it would continue to trouble her until she figured out what was wrong and what was right in that – maybe never.

"You'll figure it out," he said gently. "Two times I saw you with a gun, Parker – once in the warehouse at the very beginning, and second time a few days ago. Can you tell me a difference between those two times?"

She tilted her head, suddenly alert. "Why? I don't know… it was the same, I was pissed off and scared, I was ready to shoot… what's the difference?"

He leaned a little closer, and she followed, still confused, with upset eyes.

"The first time, darlin', it was because of money," he whispered. "The second time, it was because of people."

The lights in the room blinked for a moment, accompanied by a loud clap of thunder somewhere close, but he could still see her smile, which flashed brighter than any lightning.

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	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

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When Parker ran into the bathroom, Eliot's first thought was to go to the corridor and drag Hardison in without a word, but he abandoned that tactic knowing the hacker would bitch, argue, kick and scream, and be of no use for Parker. If he was able to drag anybody anywhere at all… maybe it would be better for his mental health not to check that. He paced in front of the bathroom, not knowing if he should go in or not – the sounds of vomiting were unmistakable, and he knew no woman who would be glad to have a witness to that. Though, it was Parker. Drunk Parker.

While he was waiting, he might as well go get that idiot in; much to his surprise, he was calm and peaceful… so fucking peaceful that even Orion rubbed at his leg and purred. The beast was obviously planning another attack on George.

He had to keep himself in this state, to remain completely calm; again, he was the worst person for this sort of shit, dammit. He forbid himself to growl, to get unnerved, angry, pissed off, and especially to slam Hardison's head into the wall, for whatever reason. Just when he counted everything he had to forbid himself from doing, he realized he could write him a text message as well. It wasn't _him_.

Though his peacefulness was in full force, his patience was nonexistent, and if Hardison tried any childish shit, he just knew he wouldn't be able to restrain himself from reacting. He walked around aimlessly for one more minute, until he started to remind himself of a wind-up toy with a broken string; one more minute and he would start stuttering.

What the fuck could he use to get Hardison into the apartment, without further arguing? He used the diamonds as a distraction for Parker, what he could use on Hardison? He knew shit about his geeky things, fairies and gnomes, and all that space crap. Maybe to tell him that his laptop was acting strange because of the thunderstorm? He doubted the hacker didn't have every kind of protection on that thing.

_Okay, Google will help_.

He went to his bed, where his laptop was still on the table, and for a moment just looked at the ducks placed by the pond with flowers… he even put a turtle near them to keep them company. For much longer than one moment he couldn't believe what creepy shit his life had turned into; Jesus, when in doubt, his first thought was _Google_. Maybe Hardison was right, maybe aliens _had_ replaced him in that hospital, he definitely had no idea what his brain was doing most of the time.

He just sighed, typed into the laptop, listening to the sounds from bathroom, and scanned through the results. Orion followed him and sat innocently on the bed, licking his paw, eyeing George. He glared at the cat. The cat blinked lazily.

"Parker, are you okay? I'm going to get Hardison."

"Go," she mumbled. "I'm 'kay… I'll come out soon."

She did sound better, without slurring, but he took the bottle from the sofa with him, just in case. Almost half of the whiskey was missing, and he had no idea how she was able to stand at all, not to mention talk. If his luck held, he would manage to get Hardison drunk too, and all of them would get peace and quiet for the rest of the day.

He remembered, at the last moment, to erase the smirk that the thought brought to his face, went into expressionless mode, and opened the door.

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Florence could hear Nate and Jules Brewer exchanging pleasantries through her earbud, but she quickly stood up and turned her back to the secretary that was looking at her. "Sophie, you there?" she whispered. "What is he doing-"

"I'm in Lucille, we decided there's no need for two police investigators, and it's better to have someone who has not been introduced to anybody yet, in case we need a new face later." Sophie's voice was quiet and light, and Florence bit her lip, remembering that Nate was listening to them as well, and that their conversation might disturb his concentration. She was, however, sure that they were all used to more voices in their heads at the same time.

"Okay," she whispered back. "I'll be quiet."

She turned around, knowing that the secretary heard her murmuring, and she quickly pulled her phone and started pressing random numbers, as if she was cursing the damn thing for not working.

Right on time, Nate went straight to business.

"Mr. Brewer, there are a few suspicious activities apart from your employee being accused of a child pornography, that we have to discuss here, and it's connected to all of C4."

Florence gasped and went to the window. "Nate, Jules is an okay man, he is fair to all the employees – his only mistake is a lack of control over his vice presidents," she whispered. "He is _nice_."

"What do you mean?" Jules said calmly.

"I can assure you, C4 is not in any way connected with his _pornographic_ activities, and we understand the negative publicity you want to elude." Nate made a significant pause. "Yet, there is something that alerted our White Collar Crimes Unit, that might be connected to C4."

Florence could almost hear Jules's gasp. That was the news dreaded in every business circle.

"Our usual practice is to call you to informally talk to the Central Police station," Nate went on. "I understand that members of your Board are here too, right?"

"No, they are not all in town– we planned to have conference call later in the evening to discuss this situation. Lieutenant Webster, that would be extremely-"

"But I do understand how it would look on TV when the press finds out," Nate cut him off with a pleasant smile in his voice. "We are not unreasonable, Mr. Brewer. Even the Massachusetts state police have Sensitivity and Public Relations courses, we are improving in every field. We avoid public humiliation as much as we can."

"Are you trying to say that we have something to be humiliated by?"

"You will have to tell me that. Let's put aside the child pornography accusations. Here I have documents and contracts that caught the eye of our investigators, though it's not connected, apparently, with the main accusations." The sound was so perfect that Florence could almost see Nate pulling papers out of the binders. "We found these documents on the suspect's computer. Can you tell me what this is?"

"This is a part of the contract with the LiveSurvival producers; Michael was negotiating with them and set the preliminary deal. They will soon become a part of our family here on the network. There's nothing suspicious-" The rest of his words were lost in a sudden burst of static just when she was thinking how good the connection was – the thunder was messing with the transmission. It lasted only a few seconds, and she could hear Nate speaking as a response to Jules.

"But when we add _these_ pages to it, the pages we found not on the computer but in the suspect's safe, the combination makes a completely different picture. Pay attention to the last clauses. Michael Winslow acquired ownership rights of the show he was pushing into programming on his network. So, is that something normal in the TV business, or we should start digging deeper? If there is a possibility that 'ownership rights' is just some code for another link in the chain of child pornography, we have to start immediately."

"Wait, wait…" Florence listened breathlessly; Jules' voice was upset.

"Sure, take a good look." Nate confirmed that he was scanning the documents to see all the clauses written in small letters.

"No, I'm sure this had nothing to do with any pornography," Jules said after two minutes. "This is, however, a very serious violation of our house policies."

"Oh? How? A simple bribe or something more serious?"

"It's unheard of, Lieutenant. There's nothing simple in this particular bribe. I built this house on the right basis, and we are doing business without any spots on our careers."

"It seems to me that you're more upset with his dishonesty in business, than with his main accusation."

"I am. The child pornography is too unreal to even think of it and I'll wait to see if accusation will be charged… but this, this… this is internal, and very close to home. Is there more of it?"

"Bank account the Cayman Islands – we traced the numbers and found out that three reality shows he was pushing into programming paid a significant amount of money. I can't show you those, it's a part of the evidence that's confidential for now. We are still trying to find if that is connected to his other charges."

"I understand." Jules' voice was quieter now and Florence sighed, feeling almost sorry for him.

"We also suspect that this recording, in which he mentions 'shows' and 'money for them'"– Florence heard her own recording of Winslow and Knudsen from the set as Nate played it for Jules – "is just a cover up and code for eventual child abuse, or even something worse, maybe organized trafficking. Now that you know he was taking a bribe, can you tell me does this look as if he was talking about that, or it was something in cipher, more ominous?"

"It surely sounds like a confirmation of his deals, nothing more," Jules murmured, tapping his fingers on the table; when Florence heard that sound she knew the amount of rage he was going through, she had seen it before.

There was the sound of a chair being pulled, and Nate's voice changed, as if he was leaning back in a relaxed manner. "Can you help me and clarify a few things for me, Mr. Brewer?" His voice was pleasant and professional. "I would like to close this line of investigation so I don't have to bother you anymore. Those three shows… they paid him to be put on the air, but they seem good and successful. Why did they have to pay to assure the deal? He did something else with your programming schedule, right? I don't envy you. You'll probably have to go through his every deal, every decision, thoroughly, and pay attention to every move that seems even a little unusual."

"Well, I can think of few of his decisions that were doubtful, but I let it be his way because I was sure he was doing it in the best interest of the company."

"Ah, I see… to make room to air the three new shows, some of the old ones had to go, right?"

"Precisely. Decisions like that are never easy, but now that it seems he made up everything he told us, we'll have to reconsider everything he has done… how long do you suspect he's been doing that?"

"I can't be sure yet, we're still collecting the evidence, but at least six months. If you didn't suspect anything, that means he did it very thoroughly and convincingly, maybe for an entire season."

"He _was _convincing. And you're right, preparing the field for this kind of scam on a respectful network _is_ something you do slowly, step by step, and for a long time," Jules sighed heavily. "In fact, I have the author of one of those shows that was the first to get canceled, she's waiting for an appointment. I'll have to cancel that, I can't talk to her right now, not before we see what's going on." He paused one second, and Florence could hear a click on the secretary's table. "Sandy, tell Miss McCoy that I'll be busy with police the whole day, and I'll call her later, okay?"

"Yes, Mr. Brewer," Sandy said and Florence could hear her in the room, and in her earbud; a very confusing experience.

Sandy repeated his words and Florence just nodded and left – she missed a few important sentences that Nate and Jules exchanged while she was listening to Sandy.

How did they manage to hear every simultaneous thing that was going on?

She hurried to Lucille, parked one street down from the C4 building, still unable to completely comprehend that it was _possible_, and unable to erase the grin on her face. If Jules really went through all Winslow's decisions, now that he'd been pushed in the right direction, he might reconsider the cancellation and simply decide they would let it live. Just like that. Jesus, it was too much, she didn't know if she should start to hope, or calm her expectations down. She only knew she had an unbearable urge to bounce all the way to the van.

That urge faded when the first heavy drops hit her, and in only a few steps the sky just broke in half, pouring water in rivers. Her hair transformed into sticky, overcooked spaghetti noodles that stuck to her face like glue, and she crawled into the van, completely soaked, and cursing like a sailor.

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Eliot was ready to be faced with yet another wall in the form of a stubborn, sulking, childish hacker, but when Hardison raised his head and looked at him from his place on the floor, something very close to relief went over his face.

"Say something," the hacker said cautiously.

"What? Why?"

"No growling, good. I wasn't looking forward to calming you down, knowing how much you enjoy being in a permanent state of pissed off. Man, you took the art of pissitivity to an entirely new level. You nurture the damn thing and cultivate it, adding new variables-"

He growled. He simply couldn't help it, it was an instinctive reaction when Hardison's speech sped up, becoming a fast forward mess of irritating blah blahs. _Don't smash his head into the wall, Spencer._

"See? I knew it," Hardison went on. "You were just pretending to be calm, to lure me into your liar again, but I'm too experienced to fall for those tricks of yours, no man, this one's not gonna fall for-"

Hardison continued on inertia, and Eliot watched his mouth moving, muting the sound completely. The man must have had some disorder in language center of his brain. _Yeah, his shit filter broke_. Maybe the slight impact of his head with the wall would actually _improve_… nope, the way his luck was going lately, it would only make him more eloquent.

But, something was different in Hardison's way of uncontrollably pouring that shit out; _damn you Sophie, __why did she have to put that in his brain?_ Yesterday he wouldn't have noticed, he wouldn't have paid attention, but now he clearly saw that Hardison was only reciting his words, without thinking, without any fire in them. Just like he wasn't listening to him, really, the hacker also wasn't in his speech.

He should just tell him to shut the fuck up, and get into the apartment, but he stayed, watching him.

Hardison stopped talking.

"You're gonna just stay there and glare at me?" Hardison asked after ten seconds of silence.

"Nope," he sighed. He knew he would regret this, he just knew it – but he went two steps closer and slowly sat on the floor two steps away from him. The damn idiot was still pale, and his eyes were bloodshot. He pushed the bottle into his hands and crossed his arms, trying to soften the glare, without any success.

"You were drinking? Betsy would-"

"Nope, Parker. She's throwing up in the bathroom."

He saw his hesitation and struggle in one glance at the apartment, then at him, then to apartment again, then back to him; his urge to run to Parker was almost overwhelmed by… shit, Hardison _wanted _to talk to him.

_No, no, no, _not two confidential conversations in less than an hour, he couldn't handle that. Damn these sensitive people and their need to share their damn feelings… He gritted his teeth and smiled. Whatever was troubling Hardison had roots in That Night, or more simply, it was something that he had done. He could at least listen to him, if not entirely able to help.

But, first of all, a few minor things, that might mess up their work – they could slowly move on to the heavier subjects. "Why aren't you sleeping?"

Hardison gasped. "What did Sophie tell you?" He sounded upset, so maybe that wasn't just an introduction to a serious talk, and he accidentally pressed the wrong button. Or the right one.

"Nothing. You drink coffee, and you've been tired for days now. I guess you're not playing those stupid gam-"

"How're your pumpkins coming, Eliot?"

Fuck. He squinted under Hardison's smile, pretending not to notice how quickly it faded from his face. Damn, the kid _was_ troubled. This time removing the glare wasn't so hard.

"What's going on?" he sighed.

"Naah," Hardison gulped the whiskey and avoided his eyes.

He waited. He could do the two-idiots-sitting-on-the-floor-in-silence for hours, and he knew Hardison wouldn't be able to endure that silence even two minutes.

It took only forty-five seconds to break him. When Hardison finally spoke, it was a hesitating whisper. "I have nightmares about the van, when we were parked in the park around Estrella."

"So, taking you to Estrella for dinner is out of question then?" he said. "I've heard great things about that restaurant-" he shut up when Hardison shot him a nasty stare. Okay, no joking. _For now_. "What, exactly? There's an entire set of potential nightmare plots in there."

"The moment when we watched you preparing to kill Villacorta and get yourself killed, knowing we were too far away to stop you, at the same time watching the Mexicans surrounding us all. Those… those seconds are constantly repeating, that fear, the horror… it drags on endlessly, and there's no relief, just that awful dreadful panic that grows and grows until I wake up jumping," Hardison stopped, swallowed and went on. "And a few other things."

"No happy endings?" he asked lightly.

"Nope."

"Cool." He gave him the bottle again and Hardison took a long sip, like he was drinking water.

"Cool?" The hacker cast him a sideways glance. "What about: it will stop, don't worry, or do this or that and it will stop, or-"

"It will ease, eventually, with time. Or stop completely when you sort it out in your head. No one can tell." He took the bottle and stretched his legs, resting his head on the wall. "There's only one way to stop a particular nightmare, but I wouldn't suggest it," he added after some time.

"Drinking?"

"No. Replacing it with a worse one." He felt his eyes on him, and his silence after that made him sigh. Well, he asked for it. He knew this wouldn't be a one way conversation when he decided to sit, and he was aware that he would have to… ah, damn.

"Sometimes, it's like surfing through different channels," he said quietly. "The program stops, and you say: ah, this one…and then you wait 'til it goes through 'til the end. That night gave me a few more channels to choose from. New actors in new roles. Right now, I'm having an audition – all of that in one long, constant flow, without cuts. It's all too fresh. With time, only the few worst moments will remain. I have finalists already. I have the one that wakes me up every time, the only one, and sometimes it takes minutes before I stop wishing I was dead, or thinking about taking a gun and blowing my brai-" _Fuck_. He stopped, returning the bottle to Hardison, not liking the sudden thought about finishing it to the bottom. "Figuratively speaking, of course," he added.

The hacker withdrew from him to the other wall and sat almost facing him now – his eyes were clouded and shut, and one muscle in his jaw was tilting.

"Don't. I'll deal with it, it's just a few seconds of disorientation. Just… don't."

Hardison opened his mouth to speak, but shut it with a sound almost like a snap. It was clear he had shifted his mind with effort – but at least he had knocked it off.

The silence spread for an eternity while they stared at each other.

"Passing out, instead of sleeping, stops it?" Hardison finally asked.

Damn, they knew him too well. "Nope. Just pushes it to the end, instead of a whole night of that shit, over and over again in a loop, waking up every ten minutes in-" He took one deep breath, chasing the feeling away. "When I pass out, that shit only wakes me up once," he explained. "Want to try that?"

"Maybe I should try drinking first," Hardison said lightly.

"Doesn't work. You only feel sick during the nightmare, and everything spins."

"Okay, I'll think of something," Hardison murmured and started to study picture that hung on the wall above his head. Eliot felt conflicting emotions running through Hardison, but the younger man gave him a hint of a smile that he found deeply frustrating. Part of him understood exactly why Hardison was thinking of avoiding the rest of the talk, and he even thought about letting him duck and run away. For a two seconds.

"Spit it out," he said almost gently.

Hardison sighed and shook his head. "Those few other things that I mentioned before…" he took a deep breath before he continued. "I tried to stop Nate going into Estrella, to get you out. It seemed pointless. I told him we can't lose you both." His eyes drifted from his – he had nowhere to look, so he finally settled on his hands. "It was just a few seconds in reality – but at night, I managed to stop him, he stayed, and we watched you killing him on the recording, and getting killed… and it lasted long enough to realize that he could get you out in time if I didn't stop him."

The hacker's head was bowed, and Eliot quickly hid his smile, hoping he wouldn't raise his eyes to him and see – damn, Hardison flinched and looked at him with an aghast stare.

"You're fucking laughing?!"

"No, it's just…" he managed to erase the smile, but barely. "A simple nightmare is not good enough for you… you made an extended edition and director's cut?"

"Have you heard what I did?" Hardison didn't look amused by his smiling. "I _did_ try to stop him from getting you out!"

"And I'm quite impressed by that. Couldn't believe you would do the right thing in that panic."

"What?!"

Now he completely erased his smile – Hardison wasn't able to look at it from the light side, he had no experience with that sort of horror. "It _was_ the right thing to do," he repeated slowly. "Your point of view is still slightly romantic – you think you _shouldn't_ do it – but the truth is, your assessment of the situation, in that moment, was way better than Nate's. I would do the same."

Hardison raised one eyebrow.

"Okay, I would _think_ the same thing, knowing it was the right call, but I would go in there nevertheless – just because I'm crazy, and that's my job. Don't try to think like a hitter. What I'm really trying to say, is that I am impressed with your decision. It's comforting to know you're able to think that way," he blinked innocently. "You must have some Vulcan blood in you."

"Nice try."

"What? It was _logical_. The needs of many…"

Hardison vented an exasperated sigh. "You googled Star Trek quotes right before you came out here, didn't you?"

"Well… yes," he squinted.

"I knew that allowing you to go online will end in disaster."

"Now you're simply being rude. Give back that bottle." He swirled the drink, watching the light in the amber liquid, buying time. It was expected for Hardison to feel guilty about every damn step he took, and he didn't know how to make him stop. He didn't know if he did _want_ him to stop; his innocence was a rare gift. He was paying for it with nightmares, but his horrors would fade when he processed all this. He would heal. "Your nightmares are your fears, and a bunch of what ifs, spiced with guilt," he said slowly. "They will pass. Don't worry. You didn't _do_ anything that would torture you for a long time. Only deeds count, and you're safe."

"You don't have what ifs?" Hardison hesitated. "You have only… deeds?"

Now it was his turn to look at his hands. "The one that wakes me up is the only one that didn't actually happen. Which is a strange thing, when you think about it, considering everything that I've _done_." He fell silent for a moment, feeling an invisible fist closing around his heart – breathing became difficult for a second. "When I told you I don't regret shooting Parker, I wasn't lying to you. But I wasn't lying when I told you I was paying for that, either." He held a hand up to forestall his words, and Hardison shut his mouth, letting him continue. "I had a panic attack and hallucinations from the overdose during one of the shootings. One Irishman transformed into Nate… it was freaking real. He told me you were late, that the surgeons couldn't save her. That I killed her. It lasted only a few seconds, I recognized the gun the Irishman was carrying – but at night, it isn't a hallucination, it's fucking reality… and it doesn't have a happy end. She's dead, over and over again, and I killed her."

"Shit, man, that's brutal." Hardison was watching him with a strange mixture in his eyes, and he searched for the signs. No pity, just understanding… and it was shame. He could fight pity, and knock it down, but the understanding was making him growl.

"Notice a pattern there?" Hardison continued. "We both dream about causing someone else's death."

"That's because the others became more important than ourselves. Nate's bits of wisdom."

"He's right, what's wrong with that?"

"He said that'll kill us all. And he _is_ right about that, too. Apparently, I have to work on it."

It was really a strange coincidence that they touched that subject only ten seconds before they found themselves on the wrong end of four guns with silencers.

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"Good day." The first one politely said.

One of them was the guy that had held a knife to Sophie's neck, the other three were unknown – but they were damn good. Eliot didn't hear one sound of their approaching, they climbed up the stairs like ghosts and just materialized in the corridor.

All four of them stopped more than three meters from them, which wasn't important at all – he was still sitting, and simply getting up would take at least three seconds.

Hardison immediately took over, raising both his hands into the air, forcing them to look at him when he flailed around. "I guess they didn't get the memo… that recording is irrelevant now." The hacker glanced at him and went ashen, but he still managed to keep only surprise on his face.

Eliot just smiled.

Fucking professionals. They slowly spread out, keeping the distance from them, without a word.

The moment he was on his feet – and he knew they would allow them to get up – he had exactly four sequences of moves that would keep their guns away from Hardison; one of them included knocking him down as well, to remove him from their fire.

The only problem with all those scenarios was that he would be dead when he finished with the last one. With Hardison alive, and Parker out of their reach, that was a good outcome, knowing the odds were so poor that they were almost incalculable.

But their last words were still stinging in his brain – _damn you, Nate, you and your logic and reason_ – and he knew, now more than ever, how right Nate really was. He wouldn't hesitate a second. But Nate had told him that a hitter who didn't protect himself first is of no use to anybody, and this fuck up was a good example – they would be left without a hitter right in the middle of this job.

For a heartbeat he thought he wouldn't be able to stop, all his instincts were screaming to attack now, every second was giving them further advantage – but he managed to slowly exhale all the turmoil and rage. There weren't just four of them – he had to think about all the rest that the team might face after those four. _Getting killed while saving Hardison and Parker meant there would be no one who would stop the next attacks._

"Get up." The second words that one of them said were calm, without any tension.

Hardison was on his feet in a second, and he made a show of carefully helping him get up, with a worried huff, attentively staying close. The hacker knew it was better to seem weaker than he was.

Wait and watch, he reminded himself again – after all, if necessary, he could start at any time, no matter their change of position. _But they needed him alive_.

Hardison correctly read his invisible grasp on his hand while helping him up, and he turned to the one that spoke, spreading his arms in a peaceful manner, and with a fucking _smile_.

"So…" his smile grew smug when he flashed his teeth. "Parley?"


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

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It took more than twenty seconds before Hardison realized he should've been scared because of the four guns pointed at them, in the hands of real killers, and _not_ because of Eliot's smile. Yet, killers had been a common thing around them lately, like blackbirds, for example, and he had rarely seen this particular smile of Eliot's. The last time had been when the hitter was five seconds from killing Villacorta in a certain suicide attempt.

This time, the rattlesnake wasn't coiled and tense, he was just smiling, but Hardison finally got it and that scared the absolute shit out of him; that smile emerged only when Eliot knew he would get killed in the fight he was about to start.

It lasted only a few seconds, which was good for his mental health, because his brain overloaded with panicked thoughts about all the possibilities of him screwing everything up if he did something stupid like jumping between Eliot and the killers. There was no need for that, thank god, he knew Eliot changed his mind when his face transformed into a different kind of smile, something akin to neutral.

Now was the time to get scared because of the killers, but somehow that opportunity passed when his throat slackened and he was able to use his voice again.

"We want the woman, and we want the USB." The one that spoke was a disturbingly calm looking, short haired man. Mid forties but well built, dressed in a casual suit, nice shoes and _nothing_ that would tell anybody he was dangerous or a murderer. Even his eyes were nice, regular brown eyes without any sign of cruelty. Hardison momentarily called him Goon A. He waited until they both were on their feet, and he motioned with his head to the apartment. "Get in."

Parker was in there. Eliot gave no sign he could follow, he just stared at the floor beside Goon A's feet, so Hardison crossed his arms and spread his legs.

"No armed attacker will get into my apartment! The woman is not there, we have no USB, and we don't know shit about it – she fled. We don't want to get involve-" he gasped and almost fell when a vicious blow in the back sent him to his knees. One hand grabbed his head from behind and pressed a gun to his temple.

"Get in," Goon A repeated in almost polite manner, nodding to the Goon B to lift him on his feet.

"There's no need to get violent," he squeaked, and this time he didn't have to adjust his voice to do it. The man behind him pushed him into the door to unlock it, the third one keeping himself further in the back, aiming at them both, out of reach. He wasn't skilled, but even he could tell the four knew what they were doing, and that didn't ease his fear at all.

And shit was about to explode when they entered and when Parker got involved in the situation… his panic jumped a level when he thought that Eliot might have only postponed his attack, waiting for the moment of their temporary distraction when they entered an unknown environment.

Whatever Eliot wanted to do, they weren't going to allow it. Hardison cursed when Goon A gave the sign to the one back in the corridor; his gun was pointed directly at Eliot's head, ready to fire at the first move. And the bastard was behind their backs all the time, out of reach.

He was ready for anything, literally, when they all entered the apartment, but only silence welcomed them.

Parker was nowhere to be seen. His laptop was closed and he had left it working; she must have seen them on the cameras.

"Check everything. You two, to the wall, hands on the wall."

This time Hardison obeyed immediately. Even he was able to tell where all of them were in the room, just by listening to their steps, and he knew that Eliot couldn't do anything even if he was completely healthy. One of them stayed by the door, covering the entire room, more than ten meters away, Goon A was behind their backs and way out of reach, and two were searching bathroom and upper rooms.

Their search gave him a minute to think. They came to find and kill Florence and take the evidence, and the two of them were useless witnesses. If they didn't find anything, they would kill them and leave. A bullet each in the back of their heads, and that was it, quick and clean. Okay, Eliot would take some of them with him, but that fact wasn't comforting at all.

He had to give them something worth keeping them alive until Parker alerted Nate, or Eliot got the chance to do something. Any other situation was better than this one, sooner or later they would make a mistake and give Eliot a chance to deal with them _without_ killing himself in the process.

He looked at Eliot out of the corner of his eye, not turning his head to him.

"Have to give them something," he whispered.

"Round two," Eliot nodded.

Yep, he was right… the hitter needed a change of situation, this one was pretty much hopeless.

One of the goons returned downstairs. "One window in the upper bedroom is open, but no one could escape there, it's a two story fall. There's no one here."

"Told ya so," Hardison mumbled.

"But these bags are full of women's clothes, and few pieces are hanging in a wardrobe upstairs."

"Okay, you may turn around now," Goon A said and they both slowly did what he said.

"Those are his clothes," Hardison motioned towards Eliot, careful not to look at him. However, he _sensed_ him flinching and inwardly screamed in horror. Eliot would kill him and blame the goons. "What?!" he snapped. "They have guns, man – it's not the time to be shy, for god's sake. I'm sure they are normal, modern killers, who have nothing against same sex marriage or-" he huffed in exasperation and shrugged, turning again to Goon A. "Sorry about that, he is not well… AIDS affects the brain the last and he is not in that stage yet, but the first signs are already there."

Goon A slowly turned to the hospital bed, then looked at them again, at Eliot's pale, worn out face with dark shadows beneath his eyes.

"You better be careful with the blood," Hardison added morosely. "That damn virus is practically indestructible, once the blood gets on your skin, or clothes, you can wash as much as you like, but you can never be sure those little bastards ain't gonna survive, and trust me, one is enough, I'm a living proof of-"

"Shut up," Goon A stopped his babbling. "Here's the deal… you tell me where the woman is, and where the recording is, and you live. Any other option is two bodies on the floor."

Hardison tilted his head a little, as if thinking. He went through all the aliases that he had used in the past, and chose Ice Man, with his lazy, irritating self confidence, just without an accent.

"Well, that's cool, now we're talking business." His voice changed and he carefully arranged his smile, knowing that no sign of fear or worry escaped. "Yes, we have what you need. But we ain't giving you that for free. We'll sell it to your boss, for a fair price. You know that medical bills are-"

"You're not in a position to negotiate."

"Because this position sucks, and not just for us. You know that leaving two people dead isn't just that, any little detail can lead back to you at some point, and it's always risky. Why complicate it? You're not the one that makes the decisions, so simply call your boss and tell him he can get what he wants for a reasonable price, without getting accused of double homicide." Hardison put his hands into his pockets and leaned on the wall, relaxed, frantically searching for anything useful in his pockets. His earbud was on the table along with his phone, he only had his damn keys. "That's the only way. We won't tell you anything. I don't trust you. If we tell you now, you wouldn't let us live, we're not stupid – but if we make this fiasco a simple business deal, that changes things, right?

Goon A said nothing. He looked at Eliot who was still standing and radiating complete nirvana, and then Hardison realized why they knew who was a threat, why they were so far away from them and so cautious – this one was probably the guy that held Sophie hostage. The same one that Eliot warned him about, to no underestimate him, and them, and that they would come back, next time with guns. The one that did everything _impeccably_.

Well, it seemed that guy continued that course of action. He sighed, remembering also that Eliot beat them up, and that his picture of two peaceful, sick, frightened gays wouldn't hold water.

"We have no reason to help her," he jumped in Goon A's thinking. "We know her, that's why she came to us for help. She's nice, she even gave him a few stunt jobs while he could work, and I did some editing for her show, but man, our lives are at stake here. We _can't_ protect her anymore."

Goon A glanced at Eliot again when he mentioned stunt jobs, and Hardison hoped it was enough of an explanation – he knew some moves because he worked as a stuntman once, and he wasn't anyone _really_ dangerous who did those things for a living. He hoped that was the message.

Surprisingly, Goon A turned around and looked all over the room, and then simply went to the window that was above McRory's entrance. He peeked down, observed the buildings across the street, the walls that divided Nate's and Florence's apartment, then came back.

"The apartment is not for sale," Hardison said lightly, but his stomach went even colder than it was before the inspection; he was sure that that meant something but he couldn't nail it down. He looked at Eliot, his calm, expressionless eyes that followed Goon A. They were much darker than only minute ago. He did know.

"Okay," Goon A said when he stood in front of them again. He smiled pleasantly. "You're right. We'll go and meet my boss, and you try to sell what you know. For your sake, I hope it's worth the price."

"How about meeting tonight, somewhere, you decide where? We need some time to-"

"You're kidding, right?" Goon A said with honest surprise. "You'll walk, or you'll be dragged – your choice."

"Oh, you mean we go _now_?" Hardison sighed. He had to try. "Okay, wait just to collect my jacket and my-" he made one step forward and all four of them switched their positions according to his move; they wouldn't make the rookie mistake of a crossfire or obstructing their lines of sight. His only consolation was that their every move and reaction was useful for Eliot, he knew the hitter was collecting every detail. "I'll need my phone, and he isn't going anywhere without his oxygen mask, okay?"

He waited until he got a nod, then went to table to grab his phone. They were watching him so he took just that, the earbud was out of reach. The oxygen mask would be useful for Eliot in more ways than one – the cord was perfect for strangling people, and the tank, though it was small, could be a good source for a powerful explosion if necessary. He picked it up and went back.

A new idea formed in his mind – maybe it would be better if Eliot stayed here, to avoid any unnecessary effort. He remembered Nate mentioning that Eliot wasn't even able to climb down the stairs to the car and he had no idea what to think about all this anymore – it was doubtful Eliot would be able to do anything after an exhausting trip down the stairs.

Hardison remembered that he had collapsed after he fought two of them, armed only with knives – it was too much for the shape he was in. Four of them with guns… no way. If he stayed and waited for Nate, he would be in a better state for anything that should be done after. He could deal with Knudsen and babble his way out, at least until they came to get him out.

He gave Eliot the mask, and worriedly tapped him on the shoulder before he turned to Goon A again. "You know, he isn't really well and his presence is not needed. I can go with you-"

"Darling, I'm going with you."

Hardison had no idea what was more surprising, the gentleness in Eliot's voice, his choice of words, or that his hand that took his.

"I know you want to, but – blarghhkh," he felt his eyes popping out when excruciating pain shot through his hand. "Okay, you can go," he quickly squeaked. _He knew he would pay for that._

"It's not really your choice," Goon A pointed to the door with his left hand. Hardison noticed he didn't motion with the gun like stupid people often did. The gun was steady in his right hand, not leaving them for a second. "Both of you go. Move."

Hardison tried to free his hand, but it was useless, so he just sighed and slowly went along.

In the few seconds that their hands were out of sight while the goons readjusted their positions, another light squeeze from Eliot, this time on his metacarpal bones, almost made him jump.

"What the he-"

"Dammit, Hardison, just pay attention, will ya?"

Pay attention to _what_? Four ways to make his arm absolutely useless, because he was pissed off for no real reason… oh. He blinked.

If Eliot thought he would need those moves in the near future, that meant this shit was even more serious than he was afraid it was. He quickly started to pay attention. The first press was on the spot between his thumb and index finger, and this one… he wasn't sure. It felt like Eliot's fingers went all the way through his hand and broke out through his palm.

They were slowly climbing down the stairs, and he hoped that Eliot's firmer grasp was just a ruse, not the real need for support, but he couldn't be sure. They were almost down when Eliot stumbled one step and caught his forearm to stop his fall – and _that_ was just an act. His entire arm went numb when Eliot pressed one point on his ulnar nerve, three inches above his elbow. _Fuck, that shit hurt_.

Eliot used a nasty twist of his thumb to direct him to the corner, as if he wasn't able to turn around himself, and then in another direction – Hardison secretly checked to see if his thumb was still attached to his body after that.

"You know, you could just _explain_ that," he whispered. "I'm a huge fan of theory instead of pract- Jesus Christ!" His whisper became a strangled hiss when Eliot's fingers jabbed into his ribs while he was helping him to straighten up after one more sway. He tried to concentrate and find the exact spot from where the pain radiated… it was right beneath his armpit.

By the time they reached the back street, he would know all the useful spots to deal with attackers, and he would be completely paralyzed, limping and waving numb, dead arms around like a stuttering zombie, unable to do anything except slobber on them. _Way to go, Eliot_.

When one of the goons poked him in the back with the gun to hurry up, he was half ready to snap, so he put more effort in controlling himself. Just nice and easy, and they would all get out of this alive.

It was fucking _raining_. The rain was whipping at them almost horizontally, carried by a cold wind, but they only had to walk fifty meters through it to get to their vehicle. They had a driver waiting for them.

They forced them to enter a van that looked like Lucille's dark blue sister, only they kept two rows of seats, and the cargo space was completely divided from the front. Goon A took his phone, of course, before they slammed the door, but it was good that all four of them went to sit in front, leaving them securely locked in the back.

Eliot didn't sit, he immediately laid down on the floor and closed his eyes. His breathing was quick and shallow as if he had ran ten miles, and it wasn't good at all.

"Do you need silence to draw a map?" he asked him, remembering their forest trek, but mostly to see how he really was.

"Not now when we are in the known parts of town. Later." His voice was weak and quiet. "Combine those moves with quick elbow hits to the head, okay?"

"Okay, enough of that shit already… I know we're in trouble, but you're scaring me even more, you're acting strange. What did I miss? What's different in this fuck up?"

His silence lasted for a few seconds, covered by the sound of the engine.

"Well, you saved our lives up there," Eliot said with strange hesitation. "If they thought we didn't know anything, they would kill us."

"But?"

"You don't get it, alright?" He sighed and lifted himself up, leaning on the wall of the van. "Hardison, they're not taking us to a meeting with Knudsen, to negotiate. They are taking us away from the apartment, bar, people, everybody that could interrupt or hear anything."

"You mean…" Damn, he knew that Goon A's inspection of the apartment was strange. It obviously wasn't soundproof enough. His stomach turned into origami.

"We're going somewhere where they'll be able to take the information from us and take their time. Why pay for something they can get for free?"

"I thought people do things like that only in the movies."

Eliot just looked at him. Nope, Hardison corrected himself. Eliot _watched _him. He tried to look calm and show confidence he didn't feel.

"Any plans?" he whispered.

"Nope. This is my game from now on. I don't do plans," Eliot smiled. Hardison studied that smile, and he couldn't tell if that was the one that scared him. Maybe, some mixture.

"That's cool, man," he said, smiling back.

Maybe Eliot wasn't doing _plans_, but he surely knew he didn't want to see him _doing_ anything. He followed his example and closed his eyes, trying to come up with something clever, something that would prevent _that_ smile from emerging again.

This shit was deadly, he finally realized.

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Parker knew she was drunk and practically useless, but she needed an enormous effort to force herself to think logically, and to erase all the things she _wanted_ to do from her mind.

When one of them hit Hardison, her first thought was to take Eliot's sword, wait until they opened the door, and simply cut them all to pieces, but if anything, she knew her body. Her coordination was none to nonexistent, and when she just imagined the sway she needed to perform, another wave of nausea washed over her.

She turned the laptop off – that would tell them she saw everything.

She had only seconds to decide what to do, and she just acted. She grabbed one earbud from the table and hurried to the stairs. She almost reached them when she turned around and quickly ran back, taking the bomb with her.

She disappeared upstairs in the final second before the door opened and all of them came into the apartment.

She was still silent as a ghost, in spite of all that whiskey.

There was no time to search through Nate's wardrobes for a harness and ropes so she simply opened the window and stepped right out into the pouring rain which slapped into her face. The small ledge would be enough for her at any other time, but now everything spun, the street under her feet came up in one jerky move, and her foot slipped on a wet brick.

She caught the window rim at the last moment, hanging with three fingers, calculating… and she let herself go.

Parker knew how to fall and how to make the impact as soft as she could, yet this time she remembered that she had tucked a bomb, with a fucking _switch, _into her shirt, and rolling upon landing was out of the question. She turned over in the air, feet first, and landed with a painful stiffness that sent jolts of pain through her legs. She held in a cry, stumbled away from two shocked passersby, and literally crawled under the cover of a parked car.

She wanted to curl up to stop the pain, but she had no time for that, and her angry tears mixed with the rain on her face. Her shot leg was in agony; the wound hadn't healed yet, the damaged muscle was still weak, and she had felt it tearing apart when she landed. She had no idea if she would be able to walk.

The storm had cleared the street and nobody noticed her, and none of the parked cars that could be the intruders' – she had to get to the back street.

Limping in the pouring rain, with the street spinning around her, was one of the brightest moments of her life, she thought, counting seconds and meters, suppressing all her fears and the urge to run. Her leg couldn't manage anything faster than this.

Back street.

Dark blue van, one man inside.

Five goons to deal with, and she was able only to slid by the wall when nausea and pain hit her in one united giant blow that darkened everything around her.

_What if they were already dead?_ a small, terrified voice in her head cried, but she shook it away. Eliot wouldn't let them kill Hardison, she had to believe that.

She crawled to a small yellow car parked near her, keeping herself under the line of sight of the man in the van, and got busy with the lock.

She maybe couldn't do anything now, but Nate needed to know where they would be taken.

She hid in the car and pulled the wires, working almost blind, keeping her eyes on the van. Her damn fingers were already trembling; shock or cold, she couldn't tell, but a spark made the engine softly roar to life. No one would hear that in this rain.

She put the bomb on the driver's seat and pulled the earbud out from her pocket; it took three tries to place it in her ear and she laughed through the tears. Driving would be something to remember.

"N-Nate…," her teeth clattered uncontrollably and she angrily wiped away her tears, mad because the crying was clearly felt in her shaking voice. "Nate, w-we are in trouble."

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	16. Chapter 16

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"You know, our team is well prepared for situations like this one, and we have nothing to worry about."

Eliot looked at Hardison when he said that in a completely convinced tone. He had spent the last fifteen minutes gathering every little bit of strength he had left, while at the same time placing them on the Boston map – he knew where they were and what part they were heading to. Hardison was surprisingly silent all that time, and then this after almost ten minutes of silence.

The hacker spent those minutes thoroughly searching the cargo space, but the bare metal walls were of no use, and not even a needle could be found on the floor. Hardison managed to find a few wires, probably to the back lights, and he tore them out, explaining that the police might stop the van with broken taillights, but it was a slim chance and they both knew it.

"Nate will think of something, we have a grifter and a thief, hell, we even have a TV writer now who will add drama and explosions," Hardison went on.

Hardison was actually trying to lift _his_ spirits, for god's sake. He stared at him for a few seconds, then sighed. "It's good we have a hacker that will locate us and tell them where we are, and a hitter who we'll send to get us out."

"That was my next sentence," Hardison grinned. He took off his jacket and put it over his shoulders, dangerously close to tucking him. Eliot glared at him.

"Yeah, I know. Manly, tough, no jacket needed, wet shirts are macho – but to them you're sick, and they would notice I didn't give you my jacket. Stop complaining about everything."

"I haven't said a wo-"

"Good. Now rest, get in touch with your inner feng shui and relax while you can, okay?"

"My inner _what_?! You have no idea what you just said, right? Feng shui is Chinese-"

"Here we go again," Hardison rolled his eyes. "Glaring spends energy. Talking spends energy. I said you should rest."

Eliot shut his mouth. Hardison was right. He sighed, closed his eyes and tried to forget he just thought that Hardison was _right_ about something.

"Eliot?" Hardison asked after ten seconds. "You okay?"

"Yeah?"

"You didn't say anything."

He sighed again, opened his eyes and met Hardison's worried gaze.

"You just said I should…" Jesus, _this_ was using up his energy. Yet, it seemed that Hardison needed a distraction, anything except the steady sound of the engine roaring. "We just drove over a six lane highway," he said. "Based on the time – only twenty minutes – regular speed and the type of the road we're driving on, we are on the Concord Turnpike, and we just passed over Massachusetts Route 128."

Hardison's fingers twitched. He had no laptop, no phone, nothing he could type on and find out more, and Eliot could feel his frustration.

"So, we should start to worry when we switch onto a smaller road into some wilderness, right? Damn all those ponds around Boston." Hardison cursed quietly, hoisting himself up, and taking a few small steps, careful not to bang his head anywhere.

"No, we should worry now," Eliot paused, watching him, not sure if he should mention something or not. "When we were in the apartment and you grabbed your phone… did you noticed anything?"

Hardison returned the same inquiring gaze. "To notice or not to notice…something… is hard to determine. You noticed something?"

"Define something… after you define noticing."

They both tilted their heads, thinking about what to say. Hardison sat back, resting his back on the opposite wall, facing him.

"Is that something connected to Parker?" the hacker finally asked carefully.

"So, you _did_ notice she took the bomb. Why didn't you say that?"

"I didn't want to disturb you. Why didn't _you_ tell me?"

"Well…" Eliot sighed. "It _is_ a little disturbing. She's drunk."

"I know," Hardison entwined his fingers and stared at them for a moment. "Nate will take care of that, as soon as she calls him. He won't let her do anything… crazy. Trust me, there's nothing to fear – Nate will immediately see that, and he won't let her out of his sight. Even if Nate was busy with something, you think Sophie would take her eyes off of her? No way, man. Nothing to worry about. She is not alone."

"Right." Eliot just smiled. Hardison smiled back.

Eliot bit his lip, trying to decide if it was better to tell Hardison that there was a dangerous possibility that Parker followed them, and no Nate was near to control her, or if it would just add to his fear, giving nothing useful in return. By the way Hardison's glance was carefully turned away from him while he mentioned that, it was also possible that hacker suspected the same, but didn't want to tell _him_, leaving him to rest in relative peace.

_Bloody marvelous_, he heard Sophie's pissed off voice in his head.

They both chose different parts of the van to stare at.

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Sophie's explanation about four ways to improve her characters' surprised reactions in an unexpected situation was both fascinating and unheard of, but Florence knew she would try it, knowing that that woman probably tried it herself in real life. They headed home and she reminded herself to write it down immediately. Nate planned to stop somewhere along the way and buy something to eat. They both were wet and the heavy rain canceled all their eventual plans for dinner.

"Of course, your guys can't play with their hair and that's a shame; there's so many ways to read their messages. An angry stroke with one hand through the hair is just a ruse, forget it. That's a clear sign of sudden vulnerability which they have to compensate for and hide- ouch!" Sophie yelped when she bumped her elbow on the door, and Florence quickly caught her seat; Nate swerved on the slippery road, Lucille was dangerously off balance for a moment. "Nate, what-"

"Slow down. Now repeat that." Nate's voice was deep and tense, and Florence thought he was talking to Sophie, to repeat that about revealing vulnerability, and for a moment she was very concerned about his mental state. He continued to drive for the next few seconds, and when she saw Sophie fishing for her earbud in her pocket, she realized Nate was listening to someone with his.

In the next second he simply turned the wheel and made a U turn in the middle of the wet road, among other cars, for Christ's sake, and the screeching sound of the cars avoiding Lucille almost made her deaf. She quickly found her earbud.

"… d-don't know where they're taking them but they are definitely going out of town somewhere and we're now going west, n-north west – just take that course and I'll tell you when I'm sure where I am. I, I… I have to stop talking now, I can't talk and drive, the road is strange… I don't have my phone, and I think they don't have theirs, they don't have earbuds, they were talking when they came, and I didn't know if they were going to k-kill them and-"

"Parker, slow down. Stop talking, just breathe. Slow down."

"I can't slow down, I'm following them and if I let them skip away we'll never be able to find them 'cause we don't have anything to track and no one who could track them even if they have something t-that-"

"Parker, stop talking." Nate kept the calm in his voice, though Florence could see the effort he put into relaxing his tightly clenched jaw. "Concentrate on the road, and on following, and think only about that, okay?"

"Okay," she half whispered, half cried. "I'll take out the earbud now, I can't listen to you–" And then the line went silent.

"Florence," Nate said after a few seconds of silence. "I'll stop and let you out. You have our numbers. Go somewhere-"

"I'm staying, forget it," she said simply. "What's going on?"

"They took Hardison and Eliot. Five armed men in a dark blue van. Parker managed to escape unseen, she jumped onto the street. She's hurt. And she is drunk."

Static in their earbuds was followed by Parker's voice. "Concord Turnpike, Nate. They're speeding up now."

"Good, Parker. Just easy, okay? You know what to do. We're on our way, and very soon we'll be right behind you. Report any change."

"Okay."

Nobody said a word, and Florence glanced at Sophie. Her silence was strange. She just shook her head and motioned to Nate, and Florence got it; Parker didn't need calming and soothing, she needed authority and decisions.

Then it finally dawned on her; they were taken because of her, because Eliot helped her and they knew it, and he and whoever was in the apartment with him, was their only way to find what they wanted. She stared ahead sightlessly, while guilt and fear started to race each other.

She turned a little just to frown at Sophie at the same moment Sophie opened her mouth. She closed it with a pale trace of a smile, and Florence nodded. No soothing words could ease her guilt. She, just like Parker, needed authority and decisions.

But Nate just kept driving and she didn't dare to ask him anything, because she saw his eyes and something very dark and deadly curled deep inside them, ready to be awakened.

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After next the twenty or so minutes, Eliot couldn't be completely sure about the time, they passed under Interstate 495, and now he knew they weren't just trying to locate some deserted road in the middle of the woods. If they wanted that, they had plenty of good spots on the route they passed. They knew exactly where they were going, and he had yet to decide if he liked it or not.

A simple, randomly chosen meadow in the woods had many advantages for someone who had five guns and lots of experience, but that was unknown territory for both parties. An exact place, probably a closed complex of some sort, gave much more chances, but that was their playground, a place they would probably know very well.

Whatever, he hoped they would get there soon. Hardison's jacket kept in at least a little warmth, but the damp shirt was draining his body heat pretty fast, and he didn't exactly need that on top of all the shit. Every minute of _rest_ was weakening him further, and the fear and solid worrying helped with that.

He didn't have to explain to Hardison that this trip would end with two bullets in their heads no matter when and what they said. Though Hardison had no experience with this sort of thing, he knew enough to predict pretty much all their moves. He also had enough control to keep calm in a situation where many much tougher guys would be panicking, babbling idiots. Damn, there was no way he would let them kill him, he thought, watching the younger man who was quietly humming; he couldn't predict what Hardison might become when he hit his full potential, but he was damn sure it would be something great.

He spent some time weighing all the pros and cons of Hardison's eventual role in the next hours. He had kept them alive until now, and Eliot would trust him to continue doing that without thinking, if only their opponents were a little less professional. That main guy particularly. Whatever Hardison tried, grifted or lied, no matter how good and convincing it was, that guy would do the only thing that suited him. Hardison knew a lot, but he had no experience with streetwise thugs.

And that was the problem.

"Hey, Ice Man," he called to him when he noticed the road changed, and when the sound of traffic was almost lost in the sound of falling rain. They went off the main road, and he knew they didn't have more than a few minutes before they arrived. "I have something to tell you."

Hardison slowly raised his head, eyeing him critically. "I won't like it?"

"Nope."

"Would you?"

"Not exactly…no."

"That's bad. If you said you'd like it, it would probably be something crazy, violent, and successful." Hardison sighed but at the last moment remembered he should smile_. _For him. That smile hit him stronger than he thought it could.

Fuck feelings, he had a job to do. "They won't use handcuffs, and that's a good thing," Eliot managed to steady his voice in a neutral matter-of-fact stream. "They are too experienced to use ropes, and that leaves only duct tape, or zip ties. Zip ties would be their first choice, because duct tape can be torn apart on good surface and with a little time."

"That's cool. You're saying they'll use something we can't-"

"We can. If your arms are in front, with enough strength you'll be able to snap them. If they're behind your back, it's even easier – lean forward, lift your hands up as much as you can and thrust them down on your back, or legs if you're kneeling. They'll break."

"That doesn't sound like something you're able to do now," Hardison said carefully, as if he worried he would get offended.

Eliot sighed. "Nope, I can't." He thought about mentioning he didn't have enough strength to lift a fucking window, but it was better if Hardison didn't know how, exactly, weak he was. "That's why I'm teaching you, so you can untie me, alright?"

"Yeah, sure, put more pressure on me, go on," he grinned. "I knew I should have left you in the apartment and taken Parker instead."

"Speaking of Parker…" Eliot hesitated, still uncertain how much of his suspicions Hardison should know. "There is…no, there was a slight possibility of her not going to Nate."

"…but coming after us," Hardison finished quietly. "Yes, I know. And that means we have to get out of here before she even gets close."

"That's the plan." Eliot darted him a genuine smile, and Hardison, naturally, narrowed his eyes. He should growl and grumble instead… but now it was too late to change tactics.

"Okay, I see," Hardison sighed heavily, tiredly rubbing his eyes. "You're all soft and smiling. What is it you're not telling me?"

"I was just getting to that part. That guy-"

"Goon A."

"What?"

"I named him Goon A. The one that hit me is Goon B, the careful one that's always too far away is Goon C…"

"Dammit Hardison, just listen!"

Eliot half expected bitching, a burst of explanations or nervous joking, but Hardison just nodded, with a tired half smile. Damn kid – his heart ached seeing him so calm and aware of every aspect of this shit – he didn't deserve this quick course of instantly growing up and facing the nasty things in reality. He waited a moment until he was completely sure that his voice was controlled and confident. "That guy, Goon A, wants the USB and where to find Florence. There's no grift you can try that will stop him, he ain't gonna have time for that. If anything unexpected happens and they separate us, don't try to play hero. Sooner or later you'll tell them. It's better to tell them sooner, trust me."

"Stalling is on our side, it gives Nate time to get us out."

"In this particular case, stalling will be my job, not yours, if it comes to that."

"Look, Eliot, I'm not stupid," Hardison said seriously. "I know what they can do to make us talk, and I prepared myself for that. I can endure that long enough. I also know that I cannot tell them everything, or nothing at all, but dose it carefully, to prolong everything and make them keep me alive as long as I'm useful."

This time, Eliot rubbed his eyes tiredly. Hardison based his composure on heroic movies, for god's sake. He had no idea what really… He took one long breath, only then remembering the mask. Clear oxygen helped a little, but nothing could remove the pressure in his chest, that fucking pain that grew stronger with his every word.

"The USB is not important, Florence is not important, the only important thing here is you."

"You mean us," Hardison hissed. "And what about Flor-"

"One shit at the time. Florence is just stage two – if we have to tell them where she is, we still have to get out of this alive, and _then_ think about the new turns in this shit. She won't be in greater danger if you tell them everything you know about her, Nate would just adjust his actions according to that."

The road was now full of potholes, the van was slowing at the curves. He didn't have much time.

He left the mask on the floor, striping one band aid from his right hand and pushing it into a small hole in the carpet. Hardison watched that without a word, knowing why he was leaving his DNA in the van. Eliot slowly hoisted himself up and moved closer to him, kneeling right in front of him.

"If this isn't a sign of more bad news, I'm an-"

"There's two of us," Eliot said shortly.

"What do you mean?"

"You can be brave for a while, and refuse to tell them anything, or dose your information carefully, especially when you know that Nate will find us, one way or another. But, what would you do if Goon A said he would kill me if you don't talk?"

"Oh. Why you?"

"If you have two back doors into a computer, would you choose the one easier to hack, or the one that would occupy you longer? Because you'll be easier to break."

Hardison shifted under his gaze. "You mean, they'll go after me first?"

"Yep, if they knew their job. And they know."

"Would that work on you?" the hacker asked casually.

Eliot almost smiled. "Yeah. If they threatened you, I would tell them everything, and then they would kill us both. And there's that other problem…"

"What?"

"My reputation would be ruined forever."

Hardison huffed. "We can't let that happen, can we?"

The van started to slowly slow down, and he could hear sand under the wheels.

"Do you trust me to get you out of this alive?" Eliot asked, still keeping his eyes locked on his.

"Us, damn you! To get _us_ out of this alive, that's the only option. Yeah, I do. What do I have to do?"

"You must feign severe concussion and disorientation – try to vomit and pretend to pass out again every time they wake you up. Pass out after every move or hit. Be careful, they'll check with a hit or stab, be prepared and don't react. When you wake up the first time, try to pretend you're still knocked out, and listen and remember everything. I need you to use the first chance you see, and clear out - if you're out of the equation, I have free hands and enough room to fight."

"Five guys with guns? Are you fucking nuts?"

"If you're there, it's six against me – 'cause you'll be used for it. Trust me. I'll stall as much as I can, and wait for Nate, but you have to do what I've told you to do."

"Hey, I'm not so easy to knock out, I can hold on much longer than you think. But, you're the one that can't stall. Have you thought of that, indestructible one? Have you thought, even for one second, that _you_ can't endure hits or stabs or lasers or shit, huh?"

Damn, he felt a lump in his throat, and his voice became a weak whisper. "Not really," he said. "I know you can hold on, Hardison," he continued almost gently, putting his arm on his shoulder. "And I also know you would try the impossible to get us out. The problem is, a lot of damage can be done to the human body even in one minute. The things you can't see in the movies. I know them, I've seen them, I... And I can't let them even start... I can't let them even get _close_ to you."

Hardison cleared his throat, much paler than before, but he didn't take his eyes away. "What are you trying to do now? Scare me more? Don't have to, trust me, I'm-"

He squeezed his shoulder harder. "No. I'm trying to…" he trailed off, having no idea what to tell him, how to explain to him. "I'm trying to say I'm sorry," he finished, his voice going into raspy whisper.

He smiled once more, then he turned him around and slammed his head into the wall of the van, easing his fall.

_He would never hear the end of it_.

The van stopped.

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	17. Chapter 17

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"Explain this," Goon A motioned to Hardison who was lying still, with the mask on his face.

"He panicked," Eliot shrugged. "I tried to tell you to stop the van – he's claustrophobic, he had an attack and he fainted."

"Get out." He waited until Eliot stepped away from the van, and then two guys dragged Hardison out.

Onto the sand.

Sand was everywhere he looked. Eliot didn't take his eyes from Goon A, but what was behind him looked just like the complex he imagined during the trip… in the middle of the woods, with a broad road, abandoned and huge, the largest buildings four stories tall. Behind the buildings were five silos, painted red, two of them leaning on each other.

He couldn't guess what it had been before. Strange ramps near the van went inside the building through large openings; if the buildings were made of metal, it would look like hangars, but the ramps were clearly going down, into the basement level. Everything was made of old red bricks, and the windows were dark, dirty and mostly broken. He noticed in the first glance that the windows were huge, but made of many smaller panes, and he knew that type of construction – steel frames, unbreakable, and too small even for Parker to go out through the glass.

He turned around, checking the part of the complex that was behind the van. There was nothing there, just a wet meadow with a few bushes, and a couple of hundred meters away, something that looked like a sand excavation camp. The rain distorted everything at that distance, but the piles of sand, machinery and big trucks were visible enough. So it was the activity that he saw, two trucks were moving. The five didn't make any attempt to move from the open space, and they had driven past that excavation, so it was likely that both complexes were connected; one for some sort of business, and this one for less pleasant business deals.

That meant that he couldn't count on just five of them in play, reinforcements were only a shout away.

And he could barely stand on his feet.

"Where is your boss?" he asked with a confused smile, but he knew it wouldn't work even before Goon A went to check on Hardison and shook his head when he saw the bruise on his temple.

"Spare me," Goon A simply said. "It's raining, it's cold, and I don't want to be here. Do yourself a favor and tell me what I need to know, and this will be quick and painless."

"When you say 'this', what exactly do you mean?"

He knew what was coming and the hit didn't surprise him; he even knew it would be Goon B who silently circled around him while Goon A talked, and he didn't make any attempt to strike back or stay upright. He let the blow spin him around, and fell into the muddy sand, using that spin to ease the fall. It didn't quite work, but hell, he had to give them something expected. Curling up protected his ribs and wound, the boots hit his forearms and back a few times. The last hit got him in the head and it was a very unpleasant one, but he just counted the seconds and stayed down. They might call it softening up, and it probably was very efficient on somebody else, but the only thing that worried him right now was that Goon A might not be deceived enough. When the beating stopped he did his best to look like a senseless heap, turning onto his back.

Damn rain was tickling his face, and Hardison's jacket was positively ruined.

"Changed your mind?" Goon A hovered above him. "This is just an introduction, you know?"

He slowly blinked a few times, as if he had problems focusing on him, checking their position. Goon C was under the tin roof, more than ten meters away, with a gun, covering them all from a distance. The fourth guy – _and no way was he calling him Goon D, that was so fucking stupid_ - was five meters away, too far away as well. The driver was nowhere to be seen, probably still in the van. Nope, still not good; he couldn't do much, not with Hardison in the open and without any cover. He needed them to go inside, to have them all much closer, and the enclosed space was perfect for that.

He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped, rolled his eyes and went completely limp.

"Fuck," Goon A sighed. "Ok, let's move out of this rain… get them inside. Martin, prepare the third silo and then join us." Okay, Martin was the driver.

He was hoping they would drag him on his back so he could see the interior, but they grabbed his upper arms and lifted him up on his feet. He immediately fell with all his weight, but they didn't take a hint, they dragged him between them and he had to keep his head bowed. He could see the floor through his hair – corridors, smaller ramps, metal cages… and when they started to climb down, into the lower levels cut off from the dim daylight and lit only by rare yellow lights, he finally figured out what this shit was before… mainly because of the dark brown color of the ramps.

It was an abandoned slaughterhouse. The fucking irony. He would really like to see any CSI unit try to find someone's DNA under all the layers and layers of old, dried animal blood.

He listened to their steps, waiting for them to come closer – Hardison was dragged to the end of the row, far behind them– but even the stairs and more rooms didn't ease the cautious attention of Goon C. He would be the biggest trouble here, if his attention didn't slip with time.

The problem was that time was something he didn't have too much of.

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Parker cursed her choice of car for the hundredth time as she went after the van onto a smaller forest road with no traffic at all. Her lights were off, the steady rain made a good veil to cover her, but her car was yellow, and completely visible from a distance. She had to give them more room, put at least two curves between them, and she drove slower, careful not to miss any junction, or smaller paths they could take.

Driving drunk was another part of the fun, and the car wasn't listening to her sudden turns of the wheel, correcting and cutting the curves, not to mention sliding on the sandy, wet road.

For most of the last ten minutes she saw the van only briefly, far away ahead, and she almost missed them leaving the road. It was good she continued to drive for another hundred meters, thinking about where to stop, because she faced a fence, and realized she was much closer to the main building than the van. They drove carefully by a sand excavation camp, and she skipped that part and stopped before they did.

She hid the car, prepared for a tiresome and painful walk through the mud and cold rain. The only good thing was that all five of the mobsters were occupied with their prisoners and they didn't look around.

She found a pile of garbage near the torn wire fence that gave her good cover, but it didn't provide any protection from the wind and the rain. She was soaking wet, and she barely managed to keep the bomb dry, safely tucked into her shirt. She put the earbud into her ear.

"You're already on the smaller road? Look for a mark," she said to Nate.

"Ten minutes behind you. They stopped?"

"Stay on that course and stop when you see the sand excavation camp – they are in the huge ruins behind it. I'm on that side, you try to come from the other. They stopped right now, I'm watching them." She crawled closer, not taking her eyes from the van and people getting out.

"Hardison is on the ground, they dragged him from the van, but Eliot is standing…he's talking with one of them, he said someth-" she quickly put a hand over her mouth to muffle her sudden cry. "They knocked him down and they are beating him…he's not fighting back, I don't think he can… he is just lying there… they are both down now, and they are dragging them into that building."

"Stay put, Parker, Eliot is just playing them and buying time – they didn't bring them all the way out here just to kill them right away, they'll try to get everything from them first. Wait for us."

"I'm going in, Nate, I have to see where they are, and be close if… I _have_ to go."

"Parker, we are just ten minutes-" soft crackling sounds covered Nate's words and the line went dead – not dead as if he stopped talking, just dead. She quickly pulled out the earbud, checking it, and cursed quietly. It was wet, the damn rain soaked her hair and destroyed the earbud too.

She put it back in the pocket, hoping that the fabric would protect it and dry it out, and went to the other side of the building to find her way in.

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Their way through the building lasted much more than it should. They passed through many rooms good for interrogation, some of them even with chains and hooks for dead animals, but they just kept going, climbing down one more level below the basement. Fuck, just the thought of returning all the way up made him more tired. The bruises and contusions were not troubling him, though they didn't help him to feel better, it was his general shitty shape that made all of this deadly. He would be completely spent very soon, with no strength to even stay upright, much less fight.

Their choice of room was more bad news. They threw them into a large open space, dimly lit with only two bulbs on a very, very high ceiling – the other end disappeared into darkness. Two large grayish spots high above them showed that the space had windows, just dirty and probably covered with something. The space was divided by something that looked like broken boxes in three visible rows, more of them behind – they probably held cattle here. When he saw two giant pipes in the middle of all that, he knew why Martin had gone to prepare the silo. Under the pipes, an entire hill of rotten sand-like mixture was rising – a perfect place to bury the bodies under the tons of remaining cattle food from the silos.

"Wake up the other guy," Goon A ordered and one of them went to Hardison. Eliot stood silent, watching his attempts to stir him, and he couldn't tell if Hardison was faking it, following his words, or if he was still out. Before the guy tried harder, he moved and slowly got on his knees to draw Goon A's attention away from Hardison.

Goon C was now fucking _twenty_ meters away. And he had hoped that going into the building would force him to come closer. This shit definitely wasn't going in a good direction.

And his mood wasn't improving either.

Sending mixed signals to confuse Goon A might prove more difficult than he expected, but that was the only thing that he could do now. They weren't coming near. Faking weakness…okay, not exactly faking it, more like letting it show, wasn't working, maybe the opposite would change their behavior.

Instead of stuttering and frightened questions, he simply stood up and smiled at them.

"So, now comes the part where you scare the shit out of me, and I tell you everything I know?" he glanced around and smiled at Goon C. "Or you think that the scenery would do that before you even say the first word? Knudsen really has a nose for choosing low life thugs for the dirty work."

Goon B and D – _damn you, Hardison, you and your stupid name-calling_ – exchanged glances and took one careful step closer to him.

"If you want me to tell you anything, you must not shoot," he smiled again, taking a few steps closer to them, putting more distance between himself and Hardison. Of course they could shoot, and they would, but at this point it wasn't important what he was saying, but how.

"Ah, we'll simply shoot you," Goon A said, sounding almost bored. "We have the other guy."

"Yep, but he doesn't know anything, he just babbled to buy time. I was the one who chased you away, remember? He doesn't even know how Florence looks, much less where to find the USB."

"So, you're saying he's useless?" Goon A smiled. _Fuck, he is good_. But other two guys looked at their boss, waiting for orders, and he was two more steps closer to them.

"One more step and he gets a bullet," Goon C lifted his hand with the gun, pointing it at Hardison. It seemed that even knocking him out didn't work like it should have, even unconscious he was being still held against him. Eliot stopped, knowing very well he had just showed them Hardison's importance. He had no other choice.

"You'll kill him in the end, no matter what I do. It's better for him to go not knowing that. Go ahead, kill him – and I'll make sure you get nothing from me. I have nothing to lose either, and it'll be a great pleasure to screw you. After all, the two of us are the last trace to Florence. With us, your search ends right here."

"You only think you won't tell us anything," Goon A motioned to other two, and they moved a few steps away from him. He didn't turn around, keeping an eye on Goon C who still covered Hardison. C for Cautious.

"In five minutes you'll be a crying heap of broken bones that will beg to tell us everything," Goon A continued pleasantly. A for Attentive. "Now, kneel, and put your hands on your head, or you'll get two bullets in your knees."

He should have done that immediately, instead of just threatening him with it; this guy knew a lot, but he wasn't a real interrogator. Eliot glanced at other two that were coming closer – Goon B had a knife in his hand, and the other one had a nasty looking metal pole, torn from the animal pens. B for Bully.

_Finally_.

He barely suppressed a cheerful grin, slowly putting his hands on his head and kneeling as he was told. He needed just two quick strikes to get rid of the one with the pole and one more to have the knife in his hands. Goon C would turn the gun from Hardison to him, but he would have two live shields from the first bullets, and the knife would take care of that deadly distance. That left only Goon A and his gun and he would have a chance to fire a few bullets – but he was closer.

He had enough strength for this sudden outburst, but barely, and he had to finish it here and now – he wouldn't be able even to stand on his feet after that.

He bowed his head so his hair would cover his face, and took one deep breath, preparing for-

A soft giggle echoed through the building.

Everybody stopped in their tracks, and he suppressed a curse.

Another giggle was followed by a girl's voice, coming from somewhere above them, from the other rooms. "Look, Zoey, here's another hole! Call Nick to come and see it!" Something clanged, and quick footsteps, followed by more giggles, faded away.

_Fuck, Parker, this isn't smart_.

"Fucking teenagers again!" Goon A spat a curse and drew his phone. "Martin, leave the silo, we have intruders. Call five men from the camp, uniformed ones, and chase them away. See if they saw anything, and hurry the fuck up, we're in the middle of business here!" He looked above them, to the ceiling hidden in darkness and the openings that led to other rooms and levels, and cursed again. "Move him out of sight," he motioned to Hardison.

His knife and pole went away. Eliot sighed.

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***

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When Nate stopped the van on the main road near the sand excavation camp, hidden from the site by trees and bushes, Florence got up, ready to hurry out, but he didn't move, he just watched the buildings in front of him.

"Do we have any weapons in the van?" she asked Sophie who was tying back her hair and buttoning a jacket.

"No."

"Will he use that Lieutenant Webster again?" she asked.

"No. We're not in town, in a public place, this is isolated. They would kill him and hide the body."

Nate was still thinking.

"So, there's six of us. Three women – one drunk and hurt, two unarmed and helpless. Three men – two down, maybe even dead, one unarmed. And five mobsters with guns. If I wrote this, it would definitely be a series finale. A tragedy. A van full of dead bodies."

Nobody answered. Nate stopped watching the buildings, he lowered his eyes onto the road.

Florence shifted, not daring to look at the dark, foreboding building behind the hills of sand.

"Their road is newer that this one," Nate said suddenly.

"What?"

He didn't answer, just smiled.

"Nate, trouble." Sophie showed him the five men that quickly moved from the excavation camp to the other building. Yes, they were going on the road that looked better maintained that this one they were on, but she couldn't see why that was important. Five new guys, for god's sake, and he smiled _again_ when he saw them.

"Sophie, get behind the wheel, be ready to run. Both of you stay in Lucille," he opened the door and got out, but stopped and looked at her. "Pixie, listen to Sophie. This is not an episode, okay?"

"Okay," she whispered.

He just left, with _no explanation_.

Sophie tapped her hand gently, and buckled herself on driver's seat.

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They were all too close to throw the bomb down, the explosion would kill them all, and Parker swore at the useless thing. She was hanging down from a cut off pole, very similar to the one that one of them was holding. It handled her weight, and she could only imagine what just one hit with that could do to a human body.

Hanging eased the pain in her leg, but it was difficult to keep her balance when it seemed that the very air around her moved, taking her with it with every sway. It wasn't the bomb that was useless, it was her, she thought, biting her lip – she could barely walk, and her every action would only end by adding one more prisoner to the room she was observing.

She managed to stop those two from knocking Eliot down with those stupid giggles, but she heard the main guy who called for more men, and she was half crazy already – all she did was make things worse.

Staring at Hardison's limp body was driving her nuts and she tried to read Eliot; he wouldn't be this controlled if Hardison was dead or badly injured. He was just concentrated, not mad. At least she hoped so.

She slowly rose and let the pole go, hoisting herself to the upper level. She might draw that Martin guy after her and give Eliot more time to do something, and one less opponent.

And she knew exactly how much time she needed to get to the room she passed through while coming in there – and her bomb wouldn't be useless then.

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The wire fence was torn at the place where Nate entered the complex. It went completely around both sites, cutting through the woods pretty far behind the slaughterhouse. The main road went around it, following the fence, but he returned a few hundred meters from the place where he left Lucille.

He had an earbud in just in case Parker came back online, but he completely muted a quiet conversation between Florence and Sophie, leaving the grifter to deal with the frightened writer.

The road which connected the long abandoned slaughterhouse and the working sand excavation camp really was far better maintained than the main road that ran parallel with that one… and occasional interrogation sessions couldn't be the main cause for that investment. There must've been something more to it besides a good and isolated place to bring enemies. Yet, now was not the time to think about that, he had work to do.

Going to the slaughterhouse would do no good, there wasn't a scam or a grift he could try on five killers. He would just be a witness to get rid of.

He had to have faith in the three of them, and he did, but his mind was always too quick when trying out all the possibilities, and with every step he took, another way for them all to end up killed was forming in his head. Fortunately, it went in all directions, so every possible action had at least three of their reactions, and all of that was going in an endless circle. Killed, not killed, killed, not killed, killed… It definitely didn't help him to concentrate on the things he could do.

The excavation camp was too near and full of people who would come to help in a matter of minutes, and he had to think in advance. Diversions in the slaughterhouse he had to leave to Parker… he should be creating a different one.

For the tenth time he cursed their ten minute delay in coming – it would be perfect if he could stop the five that had already gone into the ruins – but he reminded himself again to put some fucking trust in them… no matter how much the fear played with his mind.

The sand grinding machines had been spreading their huge metal hands all over the place, but they were silent now. Rain and late afternoon stopped the machinery; only three big trucks were moving, finishing the last loads of the day.

He went as close as he could, covered by the veil of rain, examining the tipper trucks and dump trucks parked in a row. It was normal to see them at this place, but at the end of the row were five closed ones, not suitable for a loose material such as sand. The parking place for the trucks was guarded by an electric fence, three meters high. Without any visible warning.

He knew nothing about sand excavation, but even he could tell there were too many of them, thirty five. They were shiny, bright yellow, glistening in the rain and under the strong lights that were already turned on, waiting for the quickly falling darkness.

He circled around the fence, and he was lucky – doors weren't closed yet. He pulled out his phone and took as many pictures as he could, at the same time listening to every sound around him. The slaughterhouse was silent, and he tried to keep his eyes off of it, and to concentrate only on this site.

A small part of the parking lot, in the back and behind all the trucks, was covered, and there were no trucks, just one Ford pickup, loaded with bright colored packages. The place had been transformed into something like service station, or repair shop, completely open at the front.

He should be able to find everything he needed there.

He checked the direction of the wind and went closer, using the trucks as cover, counting the minutes that passed.

The silence from the warehouse was twisting his belly into painful knot of barbed wire.


	18. Chapter 18

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The damn whiskey must have caused all the tears; Parker had no other explanation for the veil that blurred the already dim lights in the strange rooms and corridors. Whiskey and dust. Her every step made little clouds, and everything she touched was covered with a thick layer of old dust that forced her to cough.

The stupid coughing brought Martin on her trail, and she couldn't get rid of him – he was closing in and her leg was in agony. She turned around and looked at the footsteps she was leaving behind – one trail was long stripe in the dust, she started to drag her leg. Too painful to walk.

She turned left after one more half destroyed room. This one had no outer wall and she could see dark forest through the tears that started again.

She was too far away from Hardison and Eliot, they were deep in the basement, two levels beneath the ground, yet she had to go and leave them, no matter how many tears that stupid whiskey made her cry. Slowly, but steadily, she was making one big circle, leading Martin away from them, and getting closer to the room on the ground level, near the place she entered. She knew that another five mobsters were already in the building and she hoped they were somewhere near, searching for her, and not going down to the others. That would be a death sentence for Hardison and Eliot.

She hated fear. And she hated to hate. The hate was driving her mad. She quietly chuckled, remembering something that Hardison told her once…_fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering_… something about Jedis and the Force. Well, her hate wasn't leading to suffering, at least not hers. When she hated, the others were suffering.

Oh God, she was so mad. And she _wasn't_ crying. Tears were just an effect of the whiskey.

She stopped for a moment, resting her back on the wall, checking the bomb with trembling hands. It was dry. Two more turns.

The steps behind her sounded closer, and she gritted her teeth and continued.

It took a few more minutes to find that room, the one with the functioning doors and big, closed metal breaker boxes. The electric switchboards for entire building, still kept in pretty good shape.

She quickly checked the timer on the bomb, set it to thirty seconds, and placed the bomb under the middle breaker, hurrying out and in the opposite direction.

The explosion knocked her down in the middle of a step – she didn't have time to reach the end of the corridor, but at least Martin wouldn't be able to find her in the darkness.

The darkness that would give only a chance to Eliot and Hardison.

She curled up by the wall, waiting for the mortar and dust to settle, listening breathlessly to the sound of the explosion that still echoed through the building. She would have pretty big problems finding her way down, down, and to find them.

The echo was cut off by other explosions - loud gunshots below her. She held her breath.

She counted six bullets, fired slowly, with pauses. And then silence, deadly silence.

She clutched her head for a moment, unable to locate the source of the new pain, the new, burning one that struck through her heart. Now she finally understood that 'suffering' part.

Whiskey was to blame, she said to herself; whiskey made her cry…

No, no crying, just eyes full of dust.

Nothing more.

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The guy with the pole had done these things before, because he hit him in the head with enough strength to spin and blacken everything around him, but not nearly hard to knock him down.

Hardison was dragged five more meters away from him, closer to Goon C, so that meant that the knife and the gun were out of his reach, not to mention Goon A with another gun, and Eliot had to let this one hit him, until the knife came back. For now, he was sure he was doing 'helpless victim only few hits before breaking and spilling everything' pretty accurate and convincingly.

Until now, the beating wasn't worse than a rough sparring, but after a series of quick blows in the head and the back, he found getting up from the dusty floor a task that needed immense concentration to perform, and the guy before him became blurry and tilting.

He calmly calculated how much time he had before the accumulated pain and disorientation severely ruined all chances of his attack; not much, if the guy continued with the same enthusiasm. He flailed with his left hand once, and missed him, stumbling to the ground again, just to show them he was unable to coordinate his moves. That didn't bring the guy with the knife back, and he had to wait more. Well, this _was_ stalling… sort of, he thought after one nasty blow sent him rolling over the floor – he rolled towards Goon C, decreasing the distance to nine meters instead of ten. If nothing else, he didn't have to fake panting, because every breath he took was a fiery cut, and he couldn't catch enough of it to spit any curse at them.

"This is unreasonable!" Hardison's voice stopped another blow. At any other moment he would welcome this little diversion of their attention, but not now when Hardison waking up only meant that the guy with the knife might stay close to him to prevent his possible moves… or something even worse. Eliot curled up on the ground to erase any thoughts of eventual threat on his part, checking on the hacker. Hardison was up on his knees, swaying and unfocused. He clutched the massive railings behind his back and hoisted himself up, and his every move was a show of an uncoordinated, completely lost person. He tried to walk but his legs gave way and he just crumpled where he was, laying like he was dead, with his arms spread out.

Eliot had no idea if that was an act, or if he was really shook up, but the timing of it showed him that the hacker was giving him a little time to get it together… at least he hoped it was so, and not just a coincidence.

He needed him awake and able to clear out when shit started. He eyed him once more, noticing he was now a little further from the center. When he gave him a sign, the hacker would need only a few steps to disappear among the rows of boxes, out of their sight.

The guy with the knife went closer to the hacker, hitting him with his foot, but no reaction came.

"Leave that one, we have time for him later," Goon A ordered shortly. "This one won't talk – maybe it's time to show him we are serious." He got one nod in response, and Eliot widened his eyes as much as he could, watching the knife approaching. _It's about fucking time_. He crawled one step away, only to be stopped with the pole across his back. He didn't turn around, he didn't need to. _Seventy five centimeters, seven o'clock, weight on his left foot, slightly unbalanced._

Goon B grinned, reflecting the pale yellow light from the blade into his eyes, and stopped one meter in front of him. Finally, the knife and the pole were within his reach.

"We can cut your face and your fingers first, so no one will recognize you if you're found," the guy smiled when Eliot flinched and got on his knees, and slowly, painfully, to his feet, one step to the left – Goon C had to move, Goon B was now in his line of sight. "Where shall we start?"

"Oh, I have a few ideas," he looked him in the eyes and smiled, straightening just a little, enough to make other guy's eyes blink with uncertainty. He put the knife between two of them, as a shield – _thank you, that is appreciated_ – but Eliot had no time to start.

The sound of a large explosion went through the building, shaking the unstable ruins, and all of them could hear screeching in the walls, and rumble from all around.

Yet, no one could see the effects of explosion, because along with the sound, all the lights flickered and went out, leaving them all in pitch darkness. _Good job, Parker_. A soft rustle on the floor where Hardison was told him that the hacker didn't need his sign to clear out – and he was finally free to act.

Eliot moved two steps to the right in the darkness, closing his eyes.

"Hello there," he drawled, softly, letting the smile be heard.

And _then_, he started.

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Florence managed to keep quiet when they heard the explosion, but when the sound of gunshots reached the van, she looked at Sophie. The dark haired woman was looking right in front of her, her face set in an expressionless mask, not giving away any clue to what was going on in her mind.

They were parked on the road, half way between the camp and the ruined building, able to see both through the trees. Sophie's eyes were set on the camp, she didn't look at the ruins _once_. Florence was pretty certain if there had been a magazine in the van that Sophie wouldn't even look at the camp.

"I should have brought the bullets for my gun from my apartment," she whispered, unable to stand the silence any longer. "Is there anything, _anything_ we can do?

Sophie slowly turned to her. "No," she said calmly. "Just… trust in them all."

She couldn't.

Florence averted her eyes from her, watching the sudden activity in the excavation camp. The explosion and gunshots drew small figures out, reminding her of an ant hill someone stirred with a stick. A few cars and one truck left the camp, but many of them were still inside, doing who knew what. Nate was in the middle of that, for Christ's sake. She curled up in the passenger's seat.

"Fasten your seat belt, Florence." Sophie's voice suddenly sounded serious, and she quickly obeyed.

"What's going on?"

"You asked if there was anything we could do… well, there is now."

Florence squinted. One of the cars that left the camp, a large SUV, was heading in their direction. There was a chance they would just pass them and continue on, right? But even before she saw they were slowing down, she knew it was a fool's hope.

Sophie waited until the driver stopped and two men got out, coming to Lucille, and then Lucille's engine roared and Florence grabbed her seat.

She would never, ever, be able to write a car chase without this horrible, sinking feeling in her gut.

Reality sucked.

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Nate was sure that a violent thrust with a screwdriver would make a hole in the truck's gas tank, but the only result was a jolt of pain that shot through his hand and arm. He hurried back into the covered space, shaking his numb hand, silently cursing, and came back with the screwdriver and a hammer.

That worked. The trickle of gasoline was small, so he made another hole on the upper part to let the air in; that worked even better, and in a less than a minute the five tripper trucks were leaking fuel, making puddles. In another minute the puddles connected and spread out under the vehicles, and the odor was thick and heavy. Evaporation could make a critical mass in a matter of seconds, so he retreated to the Ford parked on the other end, to prepare a welding machine he had found near it.

He hid behind it at the last moment – loud shouts, orders, the sound of running and curses were spreading in the middle of the camp, around the main buildings and containers – nobody came to that side, but it was only a matter of time before someone would come to check the trucks.

His dark gray suit was almost invisible against the dark green Ford, in the diminishing daylight, and roof covered him from the large lights that were lit all around. He examined the packages in the back of the pickup, in case he should have to hide in there – sealed, with Chinese letters, seven of them… too small to give any decent cover. He took pictures, and one more of entire the pickup - Ford Super Duty F-250 DRW XL, brand new, shining like the majority of the trucks. And it wasn't washed by rain, he was shielded.

Something was strange here, but he couldn't catch it.

He waited, observing the mess in the center, waiting for someone to give direct orders, and he didn't have to wait long. After the initial turmoil one voice took over and sent ten more men into the ruins, to check out the explosion and gunshots that followed.

He started to count, giving them time to leave the camp, turning the welding machine on.

This was the tricky part: the gasoline vapor was thick by now, and he could easily blow himself up along with the trucks, so he placed the white hot stream two meters away from the first puddle, retreating as far as he could.

He chose the working trucks at the far end for the explosion, far away from the covered ones and the Ford – those needed an inspection, not destruction.

He was almost fifty meters away when the first man noticed him and raised the alarm, but before they could gather and go after him, a hiss of flame started ignition. Detonation moved the ground below his feet, and the blast threw him into the bushes.

He struggled to his feet, turning just once; the ten men sent to the ruins were running back to the camp.

He smirked once and disappeared in the woods to find a good observation spot.

They would be busy with saving the covered trucks from spreading the fire and no one would be sent to join the rest of them in the ruins again, but he had to be sure.

He made himself busy with other plans he could use if he needed another distraction; everything was better than listening to the dreadful silence that fell on the ruins after the gunshots.

Six bullets.

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Things weren't going as smooth as Eliot wanted. Not a surprise, knowing he stayed conscious only by reminding himself that he should be upright and standing; his moves were a faltering mess, weak and inaccurate.

Eliot hit the one with the pole with an elbow in the head, turning – Jesus, he was so damn slow - to Goon B with the knife, and he almost finished his move when he realized that the first one only staggered and didn't fall. Fuck, he overestimated his strength, obviously, and this was payback time. You couldn't lift the damn window, he reminded himself.

He used Goon B as a shield from the pole, but his knife flew away in the darkness, out of his sight and reach. It took three hits to knock the man down, three dangerously slow seconds, and his advantage started to disappear. When he realized he could see the profile of the man with the pole, he remembered the two windows high above them – they were providing some light, and their eyes were adjusting to the darkness. He knew that Goons A and C could see his silhouette too. The first bullet that came close to him confirmed that happy thought.

He was too slow, and pole got him over the shoulder, he just managed to avoid a hit in the head. The fall was heavy, he crashed onto his back, all the air going out of his lungs in one painful exhale. Only his reflexes saved him, he instinctively rolled away, avoiding two more blows.

For ten dreadful seconds he couldn't breathe, couldn't inhale, all strength was drained from him. But he had to get up.

One more bullet came dangerously closer this time; the eyes of Goon A were adjusting too quickly to the dark and he could see their shapes. If he let this one occupy him just a few seconds more, that would be it. Time was running out faster than his strength.

He brought his attacker down with a hit to his legs, but this time it took the same amount of time for both of them to hoist themselves up.

Third bullet went through Hardison's jacket, two inches from his ribs.

The fourth one would kill him.

He avoided three more swings of the pole, barely seeing the movement, more by listening to the air that hissed around him, and at the end of the third swing he closed the distance, throwing himself directly into the man, crashing him to the floor. He hit him with his head while they were falling, and two more times when they landed, and he was sure this one would stay down.

But he stayed down too. The opponent's elbow had found its way to his chest in that collision, and the pain was unbearable.

Moving his arms became an impossible task, and when he tried to push himself off the ground they just refused to obey, he fell back, gasping for air. _Stay down, they can't see you now, black on black_.

Yet, he knew, if he stayed down, he wouldn't be able to get up.

_Two down, two to go_. Two with guns, out of his reach.

He bit back the curse, closed his eyes, and waited.

He could hear Goon C slowly moving – his steps were cautious and steady; he was trying to come closer, to find an angle that would help him to see who was where on the dark floor full of garbage.

Just a few more steps, he needed him to come just three meters closer, and he would be in the reach, he could tackle him and knock him on the floor.

But the man stopped, when a low rumble was heard again. Another explosion, not in this building, but close. For a few seconds he was thrown back into the basement corridor of _Estrella_ – gunpowder, shots, darkness, the sound of an explosion and the pain cut off his breathing, pushing him to the very edge of a panic attack. _Nate, what the hell are you doing_? Sophie and Florence were with him, for god's sake… for a moment he was completely unstrung, with one more crisis to handle, the three of them too far away to do anything, out of his reach - but he snapped himself out of it. _One shit at a time_.

Damn, he had to move. He slowly slowed his breathing, once more gathering everything he had in him – and how tired he was of this shit, it was simply indescribable – and raised himself to his knees. Three meters. When he jumped up, he would be charging right into his gun, in the dark… but it was the only way.

He tensed every muscle that he could command, not taking his eyes from the man and his gun, but right before the moment he started, a quiet sound from somewhere to the left of him drew Goon C's attention.

_Fuck, Hardison is still here and he'll…_. He sprang to his feet driven by a sudden burst of rage and fear, and slammed into Goon C with all his force. The gun went off, he felt the warmth of the bullet, and just the thought that he might be too late, that the bullet might hit the hacker painted everything red. At the last second, with his last conscious thought, he moved his hands from his head and didn't snap his neck, just hitting him instead. He threw him to the ground like a bag and turned to Goon A who hesitated for one second, his gun moving from him to the place from where the sound was heard.

But he was closer, and he could see his hand turning to him. He had exactly one second to reach him – four meters… he would get two bullets. Maybe even more, he was much slower. He had to kill him with the first hit, because he wouldn't have time for the second, and Hardison would be left with him alone.

He took one last, deep breath, and started.

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Hardison was the only one who wasn't completely blind when the explosion cut off the lights, because his eyes were closed the whole time, and he opened them to a grayish, shadowy world, not the pitch black that surrounded everybody else.

The only problem was he was seeing two of everything.

He came to his senses when they threw him on the sand by the van, he was out less than a minute – _somebody_ obviously misjudged his strength. And what about asking nicely, huh? He could _pretend_ to be out, but that thought was obviously too much for _somebody_. He was starting to see a pattern here, and he could almost imagine Eliot's vision with red letters on display in the corners of his eyes; _dangerous situation – teammates in his way – remove – exterminate_. Fucking violent types with one track minds… he was almost as tired of his shortcuts as he was of his duty issues. So what if he was the hitter, he wasn't subscribed to all the shit that came their way. Sometimes, and he was determined to teach him that, it was okay to share the load, even with the less successful. This _protect with life_ thing was starting to scare the shit out of him.

He wasn't completely helpless. While they were dragging him, he managed to lift a phone from one guy – yes, it might be only his third successful lift in almost five years, but he did it now, in a stressful situation, when it mattered the most. He also had a pocket full of wires that he pulled out in the van, and when they threw him on the floor, he found one long, rusty nail that was almost as useful as a real knife.

He. Wasn't. Fucking. Helpless.

He was just scared. According to _somebody_, fear was good.

And he had a concussion, but he would rather die than tell him that a not very strong collision with the wall shook his brain so much that he was seeing everything double. He was tougher than that, it was just… unhappy chance. A moment of temporary softening of his skull. Somethin' like that.

His fear grew stronger when the lights went out and when Eliot started, because he could clearly see how slow he was, and how much effort it took to bring the first two down. If the hitter was clever, if he calculated him into his action, as an active role, and not just as _keep safe_, they could do it together.

Yet, he understood. And he knew he shared that feeling, just he wasn't very often in a position to stand between his friends and danger. And when he saw that Eliot tried to get up, and fell back – two Eliots, but both of them damn clear – he swallowed all his complaints about the hitter and felt the same rage and fear Eliot must have felt from when this shit started.

A nearby explosion told him that the other part of the team wasn't idle as well – Nate was obviously very busy. It was about time for all of them to clear out.

_No, you won't_, he thought watching Goon C coming closer, searching for the hitter, aiming the gun deadly close – and he slowly stepped closer, intentionally making noise. He had to give Eliot that second to react.

_Remove, exterminate_. He had to bite back a laugh when _he_ felt that, when he almost continued to Goon C to stop him. But he stopped. He wouldn't be faster than Eliot, even in this condition.

He almost squinted at their collision, but when the bullet went off, and he couldn't see who was hit, he forgot to breathe. The other guy fell, Eliot was standing, but there was the last one, with yet another gun, and this damn idiot, _again_, didn't stop for a second to think that there were two of them now, he just turned to Goon A. Hardison could see his mind, his decision, and his heart literally stopped for a heartbeat when he charged directly toward the gun.

At the moment Eliot moved, Hardison threw the nail and hit the Goon A in the face. It didn't move his hand with the gun, but the first bullet went with a second's delay, and Eliot was already falling. No, not falling, he was sliding with his feet first, under the bullets that were expecting him in front, and he slammed into Goon A's legs, knocking him down. The guy fell hard, slammed his head on the metal railings, and didn't move anymore.

But he wasn't the only one that stayed on the ground. He should have expected that, it would be a miracle if Eliot could now stand on his feet, but nevertheless fear grabbed him with renewed strength.

Hardison hurried to him, stumbling over unseen things, nearly falling over him; Eliot was curled up on the ground, on his left side. Hardison quickly pointed the stolen phone and in blue light he could see he was conscious, just too spent to do anything except breathe.

He turned him onto his back, pointing the phone at his face. "Are you shot?" he asked, worriedly monitoring his almost closed eyes.

"No… I don't think so." Eliot's voice sounded more uninterested than weak. Uh–oh.

He swallowed the fear and nudged him. "Naw, don't play that shit on me – stay awake or I'll have to slap you, and we both know how that'll end."

"I'm awake." More quiet, absent words, he wasn't quite present. Hardison quickly ran his hands over him, trying to find any new wounds, just in case, and the fact Eliot didn't try to push him away or stop him told him exactly what state he was in. For someone who wasn't supposed to be able to climb down the stairs to the street, he was doing surprisingly well. He had no idea how, though… fucking stubbornness was only a part of the answer. He should have been down before they stopped the van.

He pulled him up to sit. Letting him stay down would only push him deeper into unconsciousness, and he was balancing on the very edge of it already.

"All four are down, but they might get up soon, and we have to move," he said gently when he was sure the hitter would stay upright. "We have to find Parker, another five are coming. Can you walk?"

The silence spread while Eliot was thinking, and Hardison worriedly thought about slapping him when he spoke at last.

"I need four minutes. Then I'll walk." He blinked slowly, focusing. "A phone?"

"Successful lift. You didn't hit me as hard as you thought. You're getting soft."

No comment on that, and he should snapped at him. Hardison leaned of the railings above him; the dizziness was making him sick, and he tried not to show it. He still saw everything double.

Eliot leaned his left shoulder on the railings, resting, and Hardison examined the phone just to keep a little light, so he could keep an eye on him. His hands were clutched around his chest, but as far as he could see, he was breathing normally, not too quick or shallow. In fact, slower than he should-

"Eliot, open your eyes, or I'll poke you to see if you're awake, and you don't want that."

"Inner feng shui needs dark," he whispered but he lifted his head up.

"Stay right there." Hardison turned around and went back into the open space, trying to ease his panic and the urge to hurry the fuck up - he frantically searched for the guns, the knife, or anything that they could use – and it was just useless floundering in the darkness, he was staggering as the room spun around him. He didn't even know where the exit was, in which direction, and even if he knew, they couldn't go that way, five men were coming and they would bump right into them. He was stuck in this fucking labyrinth with a barely conscious man, and he was unarmed. They were two stories below the ground level. The full severity of the situation hit him when he realized that only thing he could do was to move Eliot deeper into the rows of animal pens and then to bring those five somewhere after him.

He turned around, misjudged the distance, and crashed face first into a column he didn't see – and that showed him how successful that diversion would be.

For starters, they had to move away from the four who could easily come together faster than Eliot's usual opponents. He groped around until he felt his jacket, then pulled him up on his feet. "C'mon, we have to move. We can't stay close to these guys."

"Dammit, Hardison, what part of the four minutes didn't you-"

"No complaining, just walk." He pulled him carefully in a randomly chosen direction, and made him walk until he was sure those four would have trouble finding them, and he let him sit only when he was sure that behind their backs was something solid, made of wood and steel.

"We could call Nate," he said when he felt Eliot was drifting away again.

"Could?"

"I don't know his number by heart. Do you?"

"How can you not know-" Good, a little annoyance crept back into Eliot's voice, he didn't sound so absent. "No, I don't know his number… he's on speed dial."

"Cool. Sophie's? No? I thought so. I'll try to-"

"Where are you?" Parker's voice was coming from the other end of this middle part – a quiet whisper, but strong enough to carry. He lifted the hand with the phone and sent the blue signal into the darkness.

"She's limping." One more absent remark from the hitter, barely audible. He lowered his head again and Hardison reached to nudge him but missed, his hand went by his shoulder. He aimed at the other Eliot, and he remembered to aim between the two images the next time. The headache was getting stronger. He calculated the trajectory and tried again, this time reaching his shoulder – he must have poked something hit because the hitter hissed through gritted teeth, and recoiled from his touch.

"Nothing better than a little pain to wake you up," he grinned, though he didn't feel like grinning at all. "Focus, Eliot. Just a few more minutes, and we'll be out of here. Stay with me, okay?"

"The fifth guy is somewhere near those silos, he lost me in the dark," Parker whispered, crouching next to them, grabbing them both at their forearms – her version of a quick hug. "We have to go, five new ones entered the building, they are climbing down as we speak."

"Between us and the exit," Eliot said, and Hardison knew what he was thinking. He couldn't fight those five, hell, all three of them couldn't fight them.

"I entered on the opposite side," Parker said. "One wall is crushed, the holes are big enough for all of us. The only problem is-"

"Speed," Hardison finished. She was limping, Eliot might not be able to walk at all, and he was seeing double, his vision was completely fucked up.

As if answering their thoughts, a quiet noise, metal on metal, was heard not very far away, only a few rooms, and one level above them. They might be slow because of the darkness, but they weren't stopping. And they would have torch lights.

"It's simple," Hardison said. "I'll draw them away deeper into the building, away from Parker's route and lose them there, then simply go out where we entered. And I suggest you start walking, as in now."

Eliot _chuckled_. "You're fucking joking, right?" he whispered hoarsely.

"What? No, I'm serio-"

"Really? Take this," Eliot handed them something – he flashed the phone and saw the keys from his jacket – but when he reached for them his hand went by, again, missing them by ten inches.

"You have a concussion, Hardison," Eliot continued. "You won't be able to find your way out of here even without those guys, Parker will have to lead you by the hand, step by step. Which is good, because you'll be able to help her walk."

"Seriously? You're out of your-"

"I said I needed four minutes." Eliot slowly lifted himself to his feet. He did help himself with the railings, but it was one, pretty swift move for someone who should be feeling beaten to a pulp. "I'm not telling you how to hack, Hardison. This is my job, and my rules."

"He's right." Parker got up too. "We have to go."

"What? You too?" He couldn't believe his eyes – which was expected because he was staring at four of them hovering over him – but those two always had the same, strange, almost non human reaction to things that needed to be done.

"I'll simply walk in the dark, Hardison." Eliot sounded tired. "Yep, you two could do it, too, but what if shit happens, while leading those five deeper into the building you get too close? Or they jump you, or you get stuck at some dead end? The hitter is the one who can deal with unexpected attacks, and get out alive, okay?"

Hardison just shook his head, regretting it immediately when everything spun. He knew that this long and patient explanation was just because Eliot felt guilty for slamming his head into the wall – he would have been snarling the order instead. He knew it was the logical and right thing to do.

Fuck logic, it was simply _wrong_.

And he could do fucking nothing about it.


	19. Chapter 19

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Eliot tried to wait until Hardison's and Parker's footsteps disappeared at the other end of the room, before blindly reaching for the railings, but he managed to stay upright only for a few seconds. Holding something firm helped when his knees buckled, he could ease the fall into a slow lowering.

_Four minutes, right_… he needed four days to recover from this, but he had to get rid of them as soon as possible. They would be slow – Parker was in the worst shape he had ever seen her, and Hardison was practically useless in this dark, with dizziness and double vision. They'd need three times as much time to reach the other end, if they didn't get stuck somewhere in this fucking labyrinth.

He couldn't walk. The good thing was, he didn't need to. Those five would be here in the less than a minute, according to the sounds they made, closer every second, and at the moment they realized he was still here, they would stay until they found him.

By the time they spread out and started to search the endless rows of pens, garbage and ruined walls, he would be able to move and go around them and behind their backs. That'd do.

After that, he had a much more demanding task in front of him – go all the way up to the ground level. Fucking _stairs_. He remembered two large sets of stairs connecting the two levels, and he would find a way through the rooms that connected them.

Okay, one problem at a time.

Compared to That Night, this was nothing. He was just weak, nothing more. When he played hide and seek in the slam with Chileans chasing him, he was literally dying – and he managed to escape them. Just when he thought that, he became aware of the mistake he made, when the darkness around him changed and the remaining traces of the gunpowder still present in the air became stronger.

Fuck.

He could feel his pulse speeding up as he tried to stay focused, to stay here and now, but the damage was done, and disorientation hit him hard. For a few seconds he couldn't decipher where he was – being chased through a slam in complete darkness, exhausted to the point he wished he was dead, or in the slaughterhouse, in the same darkness, and feeling pretty much the same.

_Calm down, just breathe_.

He forced himself up on his feet, dismissing all the plans and predictions – he had to move, do something, anything, that would return him back to the present.

He was half way across the giant place when the screaming voice in his head finally broke through the fog and dizziness, warning him of mistakes, so he slowed down before he jumped right in front of five armed men. Shit, they were close, on this level now, and he could expect them in seconds.

He lost track of the minutes and had no idea how far Hardison and Parker were on the opposite end, so he pulled a few rusty poles from the railings, letting them roll on the floor, making as much noise as he could. He blindly retreated deeper into the rows when the first torch lights started to penetrate the dark.

He was too weak to raise the dam in his mind, to stop the flood of images and sounds. A calm place in his mind kept talking that this was expected – a conversation with Hardison brought all that shit too close to the surface, and the darkness, gunshots and pain deranged him – but the voice couldn't tell him how to fucking _stop_ it.

He continued to walk, slowly, using one pole to make noise, and he could see the flashes that were gathering to him.

Concentration on the endless turns and pens he had to avoid lost him even further, and he only managed to keep track of basic directions, avoiding the part where the two of them disappeared.

"Stay where you are!"

He turned around to face a man who advanced around one wall, and found himself staring into the smiling, calm, very alive face of Gary Barclay. _Cool. Hallucinations again. Missed them a lot_. He almost laughed when his first thought was to bring Parker somehow, to prove to her, once and for all, that he _didn't_ cut off his head and put it in a box. Only after that he moved, waiting for the storming attacker. He had no idea what he had done, his body went into auto pilot for a few seconds – which was good, considering the pudding his brain was – and the man went flying over the half of the room, and stayed down.

This one came from the wrong direction, they had spread out too much and started to surround him, and it was time to retreat. He reached the first stairs that should take him up one more level, when he remembered he could have searched the fallen man for weapons. Well, he knew he would make mistakes, that was expected… just as long he was aware of them, he should be fine.

Before he started to climb – and he hoped he remembered the path through the upper story – he realized that this one was Goon D. They might all be awake by now.

He groped until he found a door, and slammed them as hard as he could, sending a sound louder than a gunshot, just in case. Parker and Hardison were probably already out, but he couldn't risk them being followed and caught. Not now. He waited until he heard quick steps heading in his direction, then continued.

He couldn't count those steps – their sound was covered by the gunshots echoing in his mind.

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Lucille was a van, for crying out loud, and vans weren't supposed to escape from SUVs on their tails… especially not from this one – Florence peeked in the rearview mirror at the nasty looking, powerful machine that was roaring after them. The road they were driving on was too narrow and the killers couldn't align with them to shoot or to try to throw them off the road, but that could change… in fact, that was _changing_.

They must have been at least one mile away from the complex already, and the road was becoming straight, better, and wider. Nah, in the end it wasn't making any difference, the SUV could outrun them both on a highway, and on a muddy forest path.

"Of course not," Sophie answered to someone and Florence put her earbud in again, catching the end of Nate's sentence. "… completely sure?"

"Yes. Don't worry. Just do your part, we'll be okay."

Florence blinked, glaring at her and her light smile.

"Parker called Nate, she and Hardison are out. We're supposed to pick them up somewhere behind the complex, they'll go through the woods to the road. Eliot is still inside, but he'll be out, probably, by the time we meet Nate."

Florence took one long, long breath. "Sophie, we are being chased away from that point… and I don't see how we can escape those guys in the SUV. I think our best chance is to continue and drive until we find the nearest village or town, and go directly to the police station."

Sophie smiled, speeding up, looking right in front of her. "Good plan," she said lightly. "It only has one mistake… we are not being chased, darling. We are simply stopping them from joining the others at the complex."

"Okay, if you like to think positive, I won't argue with that," she sighed, noticing the slip in the grifter's concentration; she started to slow down, looking more at the woods on the both sides of the road, than in front of her. "But I still-"

"I suggest you start screaming. That releases the tension and helps with stress," Sophie cut off her words.

"Screaming? Why the hell should I-" Sophie gave her no warning, she just violently turned the wheel, and Lucille almost jumped up in the air, going from the main road to a barely visible path between two trees, with just enough room to pull through. Fuck, she _screamed_. She could hear branches screeching on their roof and on both sides. "What are you – So-… Sophie, they are in an SUV! They are much better for this kind of – Jesus, slow down, you'll kill us – this is a fucking van!"

The grifter just grinned – an extremely disturbing sight. Florence could do nothing except clutch at her seat, trying not to bump too hard against the door with Lucille's violent jerks – it was just a matter of time before they would get stuck in the mud, or crash into a fallen tree – going onto an unknown path when being chased by someone was lunatic. And how was this helping? Lucille struggled, slower and slower, while the SUV followed them with ease. They were further from the place they had to go, and they would end up killed, and nobody would ever-

"Hold on." Sophie's warning sounded ominous, but the reality was much worse than her expectations. She hit the brakes and dug the van in the mud, changed gears and went _back_, directly into the approaching SUV.

Florence bit off a scream and curled into the seat, waiting for the impact that never came… just the agonizing roar of an overwrought engine, and a loud crash when the SUV, avoiding them, turned abruptly off the narrow path and crashed into a tree.

Sophie didn't even blink, she continued to drive backwards, passing the car turned on its side, choosing her way with only two small mirrors, and Florence felt her eyes widening in horror… she wouldn't dare take this road even on a bike, to say nothing about half blindly driving a giant van _backwards_.

She wasn't able to form any word until they reached the main road again, when Sophie turned the van around and went back to the complex.

"Remind me to distract Hardison from examining the scratches," was only Sophie's interjection.

"Yes, Ma'am," Florence squeaked.

Sophie raised one dark eyebrow, and winked.

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Jesus, Betsy would bitch him out about his stress levels again. For days.

His heart beat was too rapid to be counted, and climbing each stair was a demanding task that needed at least five seconds to execute. Every other stair was invisible, they simply disappeared when his vision blackened out. Eliot wasn't quite sure if he was making any progress; as far as he knew, he might be just standing. Or lying down.

With his mind playing tricks on him, he couldn't trust anything he saw or felt.

Five times he almost stumbled, though he could see everything pretty well because those stairs opened into the ground level with huge windows, and dim light was coming through the holes in the walls. He felt like he'd been walking for hours, though he knew that outside was still just evening – dark and stormy, but with enough daylight to see.

The man that jumped him didn't make a mistake and yell at him to stop like the last one did. This one sneaked silently, grabbed his shoulder and turned him to face a gun.

They were supposed to be one level below, his slow mind processed, but then he recognized him. Goon A – clearly awake. And clever enough to go up and wait him at the only entrance he knew about.

_If this was Goon A..._ a warning thought formed in his mind.

He froze.

His gun was just ten inches from his face but he did nothing, he just stared into him, unable to move his arms. This could be Hardison, or Parker. Last time he killed the man with Nate's face, with Nate's voice, knowing it wasn't him, but now he knew _nothing_. He stood frozen, unable to force himself to move.

Just one second before he pulled the trigger – and he knew that exactly – Goon A's jacket exploded. Okay, maybe this wasn't Hardison or Parker, somehow exploding jackets were not connected to them; Jesus, he was really completely out of it, he couldn't believe the crap that was floating around in his brain – and he just watched the flames that burst from his pocket, trying to decipher the riddle. Goon A seemed to be surprised as well because his scream sounded more scared than pained. He turned his gun - again – on him, but something got in the way, jerking and twisting the hand with the gun, and the fired bullet went by his right shoulder. Goon A was spun in a familiar move, and he disappeared from his sight along with the burning jacket.

He should turn his head to see where he ended up, but that was too exhausting. Instead he just blinked, once. That was tiresome, too.

The thing that had knocked the man down stood in front of him, with wild eyes in a strangely ashen face. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Ah, Hardison. Half shouting, half squeaking Hardison. "Are you trying to kill yourself?!"

_What a stupid question._ No, he was pretty sure he wasn't.

If he started to list what was wrong with him, he would never stop. He stayed silent.

"_The hitter is the one who can deal with unexpected attacks, and get out alive_? Did I remember it correctly? What was this, Eliot, huh?! You just, just… fuck, if we weren't close…" Hardison sounded furious and scared. He couldn't quite understand why, though, what was so disturbing in all of this, except that flaming jacket. Hardison put both of his hands on his shoulders, concentrated until he found his face, and stared at him as if he expected him to say something.

"What?" he whispered.

"What?! You're asking me what…" Hardison moaned in frustration, but he let him go. "C'mon, let's get the hell out of here."

He knew they had to go, but his mind refused to cooperate, he didn't know where, and why. Just one thought was clear. "Please, tell me… that you didn't escape through one exit… just to go around the building, and enter _again_?"

"You weren't coming out," he said as if that explained it.

"You're an idiot."

Hardison just spread his arms in a helpless gesture. That was too much. He opened his mouth to tell him everything he thought about the utter stupidity of that, but the ground moved under him, and Hardison faded. And disappeared. He had no idea what just happened, why everything was black again, and where the hell the two of them had gone. Most of all, why he could still hear him speaking.

After some time he just gave up and put their voices somewhere behind him. The burning jacket, in fact, occupied the most of his thoughts.

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The next thing Eliot felt was something cold and wet on his face, and he cursed and moved it away, but the thing was entwined in his hair and stopped him. Stopped him from doing _what_?

"Don't move." Parker's voice was close to him and he could see her now – she was doing something with a branch and wet leaves around his face. She pulled it from his hair. She even _smiled_. "Here, we can go."

Everything was dark - _yep, stormy evenings usually are, you moron_ – but he could clearly see bushes and trees all around them. He was standing; Hardison's hand was around his waist, he was obviously directing his steps. He took one deep breath. The sweet scent of wet soil, torn leaves and rain in the air cleared his mind more than anything.

"Knock, knock… everybody home?" the hacker grinned, looking somewhere beside him. "If we knew that a threat to your hair would get you together, I would have told Parker to pull."

"Ten inches to the left," he said. His own voice sounded strange.

Hardison moved his head in the given direction. "Ah, there you are," he grinned again when he focused. "Though, the other Eliot looked softer. Are you with us again? Can you count to five?"

"One broken finger, two broken fingers… Can you?"

"One duck by the pond, two ducks by the pond, three-"

"Stop it," he growled, shaking off his hand, regaining his balance. He could stand, for now, though everything was swimming around him. "Where are we?"

"Hundred meters away from the fence – going through the woods to the road – Sophie will pick us up when she gets rid of something."

"Sophie? How did you-?"

"Parker knew Nate's number. Apparently, she knows all our numbers, though I'll still check that to believe that someone actually _remembered_ numb-"

"And we are almost there," Parker said quietly. "C'mon, just a few meters, and you can rest."

Parker sounded… responsible and serious. He blinked, staring at her. Hardison chuckled. "Yep, whiskey is better than the happy pills."

Nope, it was just fear; he was out of everything, though he obviously walked, and Hardison's brain was clearly still bouncing around in his skull – she was the one that got them out and led them through the woods. Responsibility was a bitch, he knew that.

He shook his head to clear everything, which wasn't such a bright idea, but it worked for now; at least he could walk, Hardison didn't need to drag him along. Walking through the bushes and mud was worse than swimming, yet Parker was right. They passed the last five meters and they were on the road. He even managed to stop Hardison who was heading right toward the last tree, and turned him in the right direction.

"Now we wait," Hardison cheerfully said, sitting on the wet grass, resting his head on the tree he almost hit, and they all followed him. Not cheerfully, of course. There was nothing cheerful in the awful rain; he was freezing already, and all three of them were shaking.

Hardison put Parker in the middle and pulled her closer into a hug, though it was doubtful how much heat he could provide, wet and cold as all of them were. Eliot thought about putting Hardison's jacket over them, but looked at the dripping thing and changed his mind.

Jesus, he needed to rest – he felt his eyes closing, and although all the alarms in his head were warning him not to relax yet, he couldn't fight it. The road and woods started to dance at first, then went to the left. Something tugged at his shoulder and the touch and the pain stirred him – he looked at Hardison. The hacker's arm was over Parker's back, and he reached for his jacket and kept him from falling.

"Not yet," Hardison whispered over her head.

"Not yet what?" Parker mumbled from his chest.

"Nothing, Parker, just rest." But it was too late, she lifted herself and buried her face in her hand. "You okay?" Hardison quietly asked, soft worry clearly sounding in his voice.

"My head hurts." She sounded surprised, and Eliot suppressed a smile. "So that's why Nate sometimes wears dark glasses after drinking," she went on, turning slowly her head around them, looking at the woods with narrowed eyes. "Is Nate's drinking a form of upgrade, instead of a change?" she asked Hardison.

"See what you have started?" Eliot hissed at the hacker who just shrugged. Before Parker could continue, he went on. "What the hell happened with that guy's jacket?"

Hardison beamed. "I remembered he had my phone. I simply called my number, with the addition of 1701 – that triggers the self destruction. My phone is not a wise thing to leave in the enemy's hands, you have to agree on that. I was hoping he kept it in his pants, but jacket worked well. Gave me a couple of seconds to get closer."

It was damn quick thinking, Eliot had to admit. That scene played again in his mind, clear for the first time, and only then he realized that he was just standing there in front of the gun, doing nothing to stop him from pulling the trigger. No wonder Hardison was so mad – his strange reaction was much clearer now. He felt the hacker's eyes on him, he clearly knew what was going on his mind right now.

"Do you have any explanation-"

"Knock it off, Hardison," he snapped much harsher than he wanted, but that definitely wasn't a thing he would discuss with anybody, ever. Hardison huffed and looked away.

Parker turned to him, still looking surprised. "Don't sound so annoyed, we're doing great."

Doing great? Three exhausted, beaten, freezing and wet creatures, sitting in the mud because they were unable to walk. He opened his mouth to tell her everything he thought about that, but Hardison darted him a warning look, close to frowning. He sighed, gathered his thoughts that were running in all directions in his brain, and smiled. "Of course, Parker. We're doing great."

"Just imagine what would happened if you didn't change from your pajamas yesterday," she whispered.

Both of them stayed silent, trying to figure out what gruesome thing would happen if he wasn't in sweatpants and a shirt, exchanging a pretty helpless look over her.

"It would be ruined in the rain and mud," she explained slowly, as if talking to children. "De-stro-yed."

"Y-yes, that would be… terrible," he whispered back. "I would be devastated. Depressed for days. Months. I don't know would I ever find pajamas so-" Hardison cleared his throat, and he stopped.

Parker gave him a strange look, but Lucille appeared at the end of the road, and saved him from further babbling.

"Look at her," Hardison cooed, watching Lucille. "Isn't she a beauty?" He tilted his head, cross eyed, with an insanely gentle smile. Hardison simply _had to_ turn a simple concussion into something…weird. Eliot lowered his head, staring at the wet leaves; he started to dread the night.

If his luck held, he'd persuade Nate to leave him right here.

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Nate was waiting for them, alive and without a scratch, at the outermost end of the ant hill. Sophie shooed her to drive when they went to pick up others. Florence thought to refuse at first – the damn van was huge – but then she saw Sophie's eyes, flickering beside her to the woods, waiting to see the three of them.

It took just a few minutes to go around the complex, to the north, and she drove slowly so as not to miss them in the grayish remains of the day.

The fact that all three of them were alive when they got in the van only slightly lessened her guilt, especially when she saw the three wet, beaten, staggering creatures covered with mud and leaves, and Florence decided she had to apologize to all of them. Maybe not immediately, she added to herself when they all just stumbled into the van. Hardison sounded more drunk than Parker who was silent, but who without any word accepted Sophie's cooing over her, and taking care of her. Nate handled Hardison pretty well; in the rearview mirror she caught him examining his eyes and vision. Eliot just crawled into the other part of the van with a gruff, "I'm fine, leave me alone," and she didn't see him anymore, he was right behind her seat.

Nate came to sit beside her soon after, leaving Sophie with the others, but he was sitting half turned to the back of the van, keeping an eye on them. She dared not ask him how they were doing. She drove carefully and under the speed limit, ignoring the urge to step on it and take them home as soon as possible. She sighed in relief when they left the woods and went onto the bigger road, but the sound of the quiet quarrel alarmed her again. Sophie's and Parker's whispers sounded like the real arguing. She hoped there wasn't any new trouble coming their way.

"Pull over, Florence," Nate said after a minute.

"_Thank you_," Parker hissed, sounding irritated. "I do know what I need, Sophie."

"You need to close your eyes, that's the way for nausea to pass, and not-"

"Move," Parker said directly behind Florence's shoulder. "I'll drive."

Florence looked at the shaking, wounded and drunk woman wrapped in a blanket, but Nate nodded, so she moved from the driver's seat without a word.

She went to Hardison to tell him she was sorry, but she decided she would wait until he erased that crazy grin from his face; she doubted he could see her clearly because his head was slightly tilted as if he was trying to see things from a lower angle. His eyes seemed to roll around with every blink and every move.

She gathered all her courage and went to sit on the floor by Eliot, ready for pissed off growling. It was better to go through that in the van, it would be quick, if not painless, than in the apartment.

Just when she sat, she realized that only from the corner behind driver's seat could he control both side doors and back doors at the same time. Yet, he didn't look like he was able to move, much less to do something with the doors. He was resting his head on his raised knees, with wet hair that was still dripping, with a cut above his eyebrow that was still bleeding. He gave no sign he noticed she sat close by, and she shot a helpless glance at Sophie. She just nodded in return. _Keep him awake_.

"Are you okay?" she whispered, momentarily wanting to slam her head into the seat. She doubted she could ask a dumber question.

"Fine," he said, not moving. That clearly meant _go away and leave me alone with stupid questions_, but she stayed.

"Look…" she started, gathered all her courage, and went on. "There's something I need to tell you."

When he finally looked at her, she had to hide her surprise – she expected an annoyed and pissed off glare, but she got only a tired one. It was more than tired, she realized, seeing the effort he put into that simple move. He was so exhausted that the border between being awake, and floating off somewhere was smudged and very wide. There wasn't any intensity or watchfulness in his eyes, they were almost soft, and she finally saw how his face looked without that constant edge that sharpened his features. It was a shame that he had to get to this state to lose that tension.

"I'm sorry about this," she said before she lost all her courage. He watched her for a few seconds, and she saw he was trying to concentrate and figure out what was she talking about. She shouldn't have bothered him with this, damn… but it was too late now. "You were in this because of me," she explained quietly.

His eyes changed. She couldn't unravel what in her words was the cause of his smile, but it was a soft, slow smile, so untypical of him that she was certain he must have been hit in the head, hard, more than once.

"When decisions are made… the consequences of the actions are no longer on the initiator," he whispered slowly. "When we took the job, that was it. _Our_ job. _Our_ mistakes."

"It's not that simple," she said.

"But it is," his voice went lower. "There's nothing to feel guilty for. Guilt destroys and ruins... knock it off. Nobody's been killed, we're okay. Focus on that."

He couldn't _mean_ that. She watched him, trying to see behind his words, but there wasn't anything hidden.

"What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger?" she tried a smile, and it came easier than she thought.

He flinched visibly as if she had poked something that hurt, and his smile faded. "No, that's bullshit. What doesn't kill you leaves you broken, defeated, and in pieces," he whispered. "What doesn't kill you takes all your strength, sometimes your mind, and your heart… and if you're lucky, it leaves you with just enough will to keep breathing. Enough to try to get up and rebuild all that shit from the scratch." He lowered his head again. "Sorry. That saying is one of the few that make my blood boil," he finished quietly. "It's so fucking… ignorant."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," she said lightly. "You just showed me it's completely true."

He looked at her again.

"I've never heard a better explanation of strength before," she smiled gently.

His eyes moved over her face and flew over her clothes, for a moment becoming even softer. She felt like a child who thought she had said something extremely clever, and the grown up before her was deciding if he should just nod and smile or tell her she was wrong– and yet, she knew she was right.

She only wanted to know what he was looking for when he watched her. What he saw. For his eyes flashed with something akin to sorrow.

"You know nothing about strength," he breathed finally, a strange tone in his voice. He reached with his hand and stopped just before he touched her face. His fingers were trembling and ice cold, yet the gesture was incredibly gentle, just a feather light touch that lasted a second. As if he was checking to see if she was real and really here. "And you shouldn't know. Ever," he finished so quietly that she barely heard him.

"Why?" she whispered too, not knowing why she felt a normal voice would be wrong.

He shook his head, and she knew she wouldn't get an answer. He wasn't able to speak anymore, merely looking at her was draining his strength.

The jacket he wore, Hardison's, was wet and torn apart, and she remembered the coldness of his hand; he must have been freezing. She quickly took off her jacket but stopped before she put it over his shoulders. "Uhm, you're not allergic to avocado or shea butter, are you?"

That got her one more smile, this time more Eliot–like. _And when exactly did she started cataloging his types of smiles_? "No, ma'am," he drawled. "It smells nice."

"Good," she said sternly, not letting her smile escape, and draped the jacket around him.

Strange, but she was grateful for the exhaustion that cracked his shield, and made this moment possible. She doubted he would allow himself this tenderness if he was able to keep his composure up.

He bowed his head again but she stayed beside him, to be one more source of heat, though not touching him. They had at least one hour to drive.

Enough time to think about all the possible reasons why his eyes, when he smiled touching her face, were so damn sad.

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The last fifteen minutes of the drive was maybe the longest in her life. Sophie was driving again, she chased Parker to curl up in the passenger's seat. Hardison lost that manic grin and was only left with the headache, dozing in and out, and Eliot stopped replying to Nate's questions when they reached city traffic.

They needed dry clothes, the heater in the apartment set to the maximum, and Betsy. Definitely Betsy – she would take care of everything.

When Sophie finally stopped Lucille as close to the back doors as she could, Florence sprung to her feet. "I'll go first and prepare everything," she said to Nate. He could think of how to move all of them in the same direction.

She opened the back door and jumped out, happy that the rain had finally stopped, but she froze in the middle of the first step when a man simply materialized in front of her. Tall, in a suit, and with pissed off eyes. She bit back a scream; no no no, they had just escaped one group, they couldn't, simply _couldn't_ fight another.

_It was all her fault already_.

She slammed the door of the van behind her. "They are here! Run!"

She would scream, and try to run to McRory's, that would save her - but the door burst open, barely missing her back, and slammed into the wall.

Eliot was standing beside her in less than a second.

She squeaked and squinted, expecting a fight, but he was looking at _her_.

She opened her eyes. Something was strange here.

"And what the fuck do ya think ya' doin'?" he snarled at _her_. She just pointed at the mobster, unable to find appropriate words for _kill it before it shoots_.

"That was my question to you," the mobster snarled too.

"Get in line," Eliot was still looking at her while responding. "You," he whispered. "Never, ever, do something stupid like this – or we'll have to have a serious talk."

"Stop scaring her, Eliot," Nate jumped from the van. "Hello, Patrick. Any reason to be standing there waiting and fuming?"

Okay, this wasn't a mobster, obviously. _But it could have been_. She opened her mouth to explain that and abruptly changed her mind, hit by Eliot's mad eyes. That man was worse than a bipolar with his change of moods, for god's sake! Just when she thought that normal communication was possible, he was once again turned into a snarling... something.

"Cora called me; someone reported suspicious people in the building, armed – she found a bottle in the corridor and your doors open, nobody inside. She knew he wasn't yet allowed to leave-"

"Wasn't. Allowed," Eliot rolled his eyes, shot one more nasty stare at her, and marched beside them into the building.

Nate sighed. "Go after him, he won't get far," he said to Patrick who looked at the rest of the team, wet, beaten, limping, Hardison running directly into the door and slamming into them, and just shook his head, going after Eliot.

Okay, things were back in normal. She knew it was too good to last for long. Florence took the end of the line, and decided to stay close to Sophie.

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	20. Chapter 20

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Eliot simply couldn't follow the fucking mess all around him, people stuttering, talking, going to and fro, the maddening sound of a hairdryer, and someone who was pushing dry clothes into his face. He remembered, vaguely, that he was in the bathroom at one point, and that Nate was there too. He probably changed. He couldn't be sure. The only thing he remembered was the too loud clang of the garbage can where Nate threw the wet clothes, and how that sound sent a bolt of pain through his head.

The next thing he remembered were distorted images of Bonnano and Nate carrying huge things, and it took fifteen minutes before he figured out those were the things from the apartment near Mass Gen – they put all of that in one room and now they were assembling two beds.

He wanted to hear what they were saying after that, sitting at the table, but he was – and he had no idea when and how – in the bed and too far away to hear them.

He heard, however, Sophie who was sitting on his bed, staring directly at his eyes, and talking. Cool. He hoped she wouldn't ask of him to repeat what she said. Her voice had a soothing, gentle tone that didn't help him to stay focused, she was intentionally lulling him. Of course he shook it off and stayed awake, so she gave up and left. Only after that he remembered that he _wanted_ to pass out, and that he should've let her keep talking.

When Sophie disappeared, Florence took over, and he put a little more effort into listening, trying not to be rude and scary – why did everybody keep saying he was scaring her, anyway? He had no clue what she was trying to say, but he smiled nevertheless and nodded, just in case. She frowned and hissed at him, throwing a towel on the bed – damn, she was incredibly cute when she was pissed off - his nodding obviously was the wrong answer to whatever question. She fired off quick staccato words before she turned on her heel and went away, and just then he realized that she had just _lectured_ him. About something. That was cool, too. _And_ cute.

When he thought he would be able to close his eyes, finally, Sophie appeared again, then Parker after her, and he was only able to stare at the thief who was pointing her finger at him. Her speech sounded like someone reading a long grocery list, said in a monotone, slow voice. This wasn't soothing, or a lecture. This was an accusation of some sort. He caught a few numbers, minutes and days in it, but that was all.

And for the shit to be complete, Betsy materialized out of nowhere after all of them, with her creepy smile and poked at every single new bruise he had. She even found ones he didn't notice before, pressing at every fucking bone in his body, mercilessly, spiced with sarcastic explanations – oh yes, he simply adored her medical explanations, whether he understood them or not. Whining wouldn't stop her, and he seriously contemplated squeaking – that would surely shock her, and maybe she would. fucking. stop. poking. him.

Why the hell were all the women in his life so damn irritating?

A gasp, a hiss, a giggle and a smirk – all at the same time. Only then did he become aware that he'd said that out loud.

"Maybe the common denominator is the one who should be asked." Betsy stabbed him with a needle, and he looked at his arm. _Fuck, not again_. He had a canula in his vein, and he traced it to a pole and hanging bag… but even before he could form a question, he knew it wasn't morphine.

"Elephant tranquilizer? _Again_?" Two milliliters, set on a slow flow, half an hour drip rate, added a memory in his head. How he could calculate the exact amount of drug, but couldn't understand a word they were saying? His brain was a scary place.

"I couldn't agree more." Betsy's smile was devilish now, and he closed his mouth, and forbid himself to think about anything.

That happened to be not so hard a task to perform, because Betsy's smile dissolved into nothing and darkness.

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Betsy was furious when she found out, after a few questions, that none of them ate anything for an entire day, and though Hardison tried to explain everything that led to that, it was of no use. Florence took over and ordered a pizza.

The mess was more or less over, everybody was dry and taken care of – Parker's leg needed stitches and thorough cleansing, and Betsy spent more than half an hour with her in the bathroom, and then shooed her into the bed with pizza that arrived in the meantime.

Nate decided they would all stay in the apartment, and Florence almost asked him if Betsy and Bonnano would stay too – this gang was clearly well connected. She guessed that Bonnano and Betsy knew each other just by watching their body language and one quick exchange.

Betsy left orders – Florence had the first shift and her task was to wake Hardison every hour and ask him a few simple questions. His concussion wasn't serious, but the headache was growing stronger and his double vision wasn't improving. Eliot should be left alone until he woke up. The nurse gave him a strong muscle relaxant and painkillers, stated that he had nothing broken or fractured, and ordered her to feed him first thing when he woke up.

Fuck, no, that was ridiculous.

"Sophie is a better choice, I'll tell her to-"

"No, you'll do it. He would chase her away, but he'll be polite with you."

"He growls at me," she stated cautiously.

"He growls at everybody." Betsy smiled. "Just ignore that. Or growl back."

Betsy left after that, and Bonnano went with her, so Florence had enough time to think about everything. After they ate, she kept Nate company at the dining table while Sophie was going from bed to bed, unable to sit and rest. The grifter was trying to restrain her urge to coo over all of them but with little success, and Florence couldn't understand how the woman could be so cold and steady when in trouble, and so unstrung afterward, when everything seemed to be fine.

That part, 'seemed to be fine', somehow wasn't convincing, she thought when she realized that Nate, after a short talk with Bonnano, hadn't said a single word.

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Sophie left late in the evening, after she realized that she would only hinder their rest if she stayed too long. It was possible that Betsy gave something to Hardison and Parker too, because Hardison was out, and Parker kept herself awake only with cartoons, and she was losing that battle rapidly. Florence noticed that the grifter's eyes were more on Nate than the rest of the team for the last hour of her stay.

Florence took her laptop to the dining table, near Hardison's, smiling when she remembered all the trouble he went through to squint at the screen. With everything around him double and moving, he had to ask her to help him set up the cameras and surveillance program again, and he guided her through all the steps. The principle was the same as it was on her peephole camera, though she got only a glimpse of its complexity.

She had just started to go through the emails that had been waiting for an entire day, when her phone rang. She quickly grabbed it and checked the caller ID.

"It's Brewer!" she whispered to Nate.

"Put him on speakerphone, but lower the sound."

"Yes, Mr. Brewer," she whispered, than continued a little stronger, putting the phone on the table between her and Nate. "Florence here."

"I'm sorry to call you so late in the evening, but I told you I would call you today." His voice was hesitant, and she knew, exactly, what he would say.

She lowered her hands from the table and clutched herself. "You don't sound like the bearer of good news, Mr. Brewer," she stated lightly.

"No, I'm afraid I'm not," he sighed and paused. "You see… we had some suspicions about Michael Winslow's business contracts, we checked everything because of his recent accusations, and the Board of Directors discussed this matter for an entire evening… problem is, and you know I have to work in the interests of the company, those shows Michael prepared to replace M7 are very successful."

She ignored the sting of anger burning deep in her side, and smiled. "Of course they are successful, low life humans are enjoying that crap… but you told us, many, many times, that your house provides drama and intelligent shows for intelligent people. You're telling me you're going into cheap programming for uneducated housewives with nine children and bleached hair!?" As her voice grew stronger, Nate's hand rested on her forearm, warning her.

"Well, global crisis is not just knocking on our door, Florence, it's already in the house, digging in the cellar. We had to cut our budget for this year, and with about one million dollars for one of your episodes, we are seven million short."

"Unless you cut that crap, and the money you wanted to invest in them, put it into my show, which would give you better ratings than any other show you have, and you know that. You know what Winslow did and how he did everything to lower my ratings – and you also know we would be close to 5 million viewers if the show was treated properly." When Nate quickly tapped her hand, she realized she wasn't supposed to know what exactly Winslow did, but Brewer didn't notice anything.

"What ifs are useless now, Florence." Brewer sounded tired, but firm. "I was willing to give it another chance, to see how it would go, but I'm not only one here… I was outnumbered."

"But your word is final."

"It is… I could put a veto on their voting, but that is not a good move in a business relationship. I'm afraid my decision is final. It won't be official yet, I'll declare the cancellation on the People's Voice Awards, I have a little speech in the ceremony. I just wanted you to know first. I would appreciate if you wouldn't tell anyone yet, until it's official."

She took one long, long breath, trying to exhale all the anger storming in her chest. "I understand." When she spoke, her voice was controlled and steady. "Thank you for letting me know. I appreciate that."

She ended the call and just stared at the phone, feeling Nate's eyes on her.

"So…"she started after almost a minute of an empty mind, of all her thoughts frozen. "The two main problems of this shit I brought to your doorstep, literally, the mobsters who are trying to kill me, and the cancellation of my show, both things that we believed were solved today, came back and just bit our heads off."

Nate said nothing so she raised her head to look at him. "We thought that putting Winslow behind bars would end mobster's threats to my life," she said slowly. "And immediately after that, the same mobsters took two of you and tried to kill them. We also thought that putting suspicion in Brewer's head would result in him making the right decision. And he canceled my show, definitely, the same day. _Everything_ we did failed. Why don't you look upset?"

He poured whiskey from the bottle into two glasses, and pushed one to her, then smiled. "That's called Plan A," he said calmly.

"And…?"

"And the Plan A usually falls apart. I look at it as a preparation of the ground and feeling a pulse of the opponent."

"So, you're telling me that this is not over, there's still something you can do?"

"We'll see everything tomorrow."

She sighed and rubbed her forehead. "Nate, we can't stop these mobsters." She didn't want to sound so desperate, but she couldn't hide the tremble in her voice. "If Winslow's arrest didn't stop them, what would? And when Brewer says his final word, that's it, no more negotiating. It's over, do you understand that? I'll go somewhere else, and ask for police protection, or go to New Zealand and join Jethro, but you're here – you're in the same danger because of me, the three of them were almost killed, you're all too deeply involved in this now and I simply don't know how to-"

"Shhhh," he smiled again, cutting off her speeding words. "Do you trust me, Florence?"

_Oh. Nasty question_. She searched his face, those calm serious features. "I don't know if I trust you, or if I simply _want_ to trust you," she murmured. "But hell, yes, I do. You told me to leave the van when we were going to get them."

"And you stayed," he nodded, swirling the glass in his fingers. He stayed silent, studying her face for a moment. "You're not quite aware of what we are capable of," he said cautiously, with a slight hesitation. "And we are now… motivated."

She said nothing, remembering something dark in his eyes that she had noticed in the van, suddenly feeling uneasy. And something also told her that this man might be the only one that she should be scared of. She twisted her mouth into a smile, knowing very well that he could read her every single thought; _damn mind-reading mutants, every one of them_. He _was_ reading her, because he smiled and hoisted himself up, taking the bottle.

"Try not to worry too much, until we decide what to do next. Okay?"

"You'll be able to sleep?"

"Three B's – a book, a bottle and a bed," he smiled, sweeping the room with his eyes. Something strange flickered in them while he looked at the three sleeping people, but in the dim light she couldn't decipher what emotion went over his face. He stirred and looked at her again. "You'll manage? Wake me up to take over when you've had enough."

"I'll be busy, don't worry. Emails, blog, updates, working with my notes… I have plenty of work to do, and I have to catch up with everything."

He just nodded and left, leaving her alone in the silence.

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She hated this feeling of utter misery. It was difficult to write an email to Jethro, and with cheerful words describe to him how her meetings went, how boring the two last days had been, and how nothing important happened.

She checked the time and went to see Hardison, nudging him slightly.

"Still headache, still double," he murmured turning on the other side. "But the bed stopped rolling. That's an improvement."

He fell back asleep before she could answer, so she just smiled and let him alone.

How, for god's sake, could Nate think they would continue with their job, she asked herself while looking the three beds – the apartment looked like a battlefield hospital. Three of five was out of commission, for who knows how long. Nate and Sophie couldn't fight Knudsen and all of Dvorak Security, not to the mention numerous mobsters that Don Lazzara would send if he saw his nephew threatened. Yes, she was with them as a third, but she was useless, all her knowledge about violent and action stuff was fucking theoretical – and she knew they were many steps ahead of her even on that field.

She mourned her show – but the other threat was far more dangerous. If M7 wasn't renewed, it would be shame, but that was all – yet, if they didn't resolve that mobster threat, their lives would be in danger. She could simply go to New Zealand to Jethro – she intended to do so during the hiatus between seasons, right after the PVA – but they would stay here, in the apartment that was already marked as a target, never safe. Because they protected her.

She put away all correspondence. Nate's whiskey warmed her, and she relaxed, letting her thoughts flow around the subject of mobsters, as if they were a stubborn plot twist that didn't bend to her will. Thinking about writing led to shooting, shooting led to recording, and recording led to… Hardison's laptop.

She straightened herself up and opened her eyes, alert.

Surveillance cameras must have caught the mobsters in the hall, going into the apartment, and taking two prisoners out of it – if they weren't masked, their faces should be visible. Sooner or later Nate would have to admit they were helpless, and when it finally came time to talk to the police, recorded evidence could be crucial. They could use that recording and prove that Dvorak Security attacked decent citizens in their building. Cora's call to Bonnano would confirm that. She quickly put a headset on and went through all the steps she remembered, improvising when it came to finding the recorded data, and playing it, but it only took a few minutes before she learned how to start it.

Remembering the time when Parker called Nate, she went back a little, and jumped into the feed right at the moment when Eliot went into the corridor.

Fuck, she shouldn't… this looked like a confidant conversation – she stayed motionless with fingers frozen above the keyboard, unable to decide what to do, glancing to the beds spread all over the room to check if they were still sleeping. She didn't know how to move the feed in small amounts of time, and if she skipped this, she would miss the mobsters. This was a clear intrusion of privacy...

But she couldn't stop, she stared at the feed, listening to every word without breathing.

Jesus.

When the mobsters finally came, she was so stunned that she almost missed their faces. All four of them were visible and clear, she even knew two of them, she saw them on shooting locations a couple of times.

_Estrella_. She vaguely remembered that name from the news last week, and she quietly turned the feed off, put the regular real time recording back on the screen, and went to her laptop to attack Google.

All the articles she found agreed on one thing: this was a massacre unheard of in Boston. Nine dead, seventeen wounded, an ecological threat still present. Something happened with the chlorine tanks at the pools, the chemicals were still too high. Five men were suffering from gunshot wounds _and_ severe chlorine poisoning. And they were in the middle of that place while that was happening. After checking the exact time, she figured out that it had happened only one hour before they brought Eliot into the apartment, caught on her peephole camera.

She couldn't sit peacefully, so she started to pace the room, barefoot and silent, connections clicking unstoppably into place. Everything that Nate said and Sophie explained formed into a pretty clear route through That Night. Eliot sent the Mexicans after the Chileans and that culminated into the massacre at Estrella; he sent the Italians after the Chileans, and that made the Boston night full of machine gun fights and fires. The rest of the team was chasing him through the entire town, the whole night, and they finally caught up with him in Estrella, not before.

She tiptoed to his bed, and peeked behind the shelf, watching the man who had started all that – for now she knew, without any doubt, that every single fight that night was his doing. No wonder he had nightmares.

Was this any rest at all? He looked as if he was sleeping normally, relaxed, but he was drugged. His hair was dry by now, and it was curly, she noticed it; the dimmed lights didn't allow her to see anything else. And she shouldn't be watching him at all, she reminded herself sternly.

She had only been staring at him for five seconds when he stirred in his sleep, and she retreated to the dining table in small quick steps, feeling ridiculous, cursing breathlessly. She was sure he felt someone watching him, even on the painkillers and other shit that Betsy gave him.

Checking the time showed her it was only midnight, so she sighed, went once more to wake up Hardison, and returned to her emails, trying to dig herself as deep as she could, to stop thinking about, well, everything.

She had almost succeeded when she sensed a presence and then Eliot slowly lowered himself into the chair.

"Time?" he said shortly.

"Midnight." She observed him, realizing he had no idea what woke him up, if this state could be called being awake… he was trying to focus and gather himself, without any visible result.

The funny thing was, sitting in the middle of the night with a drugged and disoriented angel of destruction brought no fear. She had been much more relaxed with them, yet she didn't lose all caution, so she slowly, very slowly got up. She went into the kitchen and brought one slice pizza, putting it on the table in front of him.

"Betsy said you have to eat," she explained and almost smiled when he rubbed his eyes with a clumsy, half-asleep move. It was… incredibly cute. Except for the part where he winced when he touched the bruise beneath his eye, a new one. She knew enough not to be fooled by that clumsiness – she remembered his jumping out of van, in only one second going from half conscious to deadly alert.

For some time he just stared at the pizza, and she let him have that silence, not watching him, typing her emails.

"Are you sure you should be awake?"she asked when he turned to look over the room.

"No. But I can't sleep now. Maybe later. Maybe…" he stopped, watching his fingers, seemingly fascinated by their slow moves. "What was that towel stuff, before?" he suddenly asked and she needed a few seconds before she remembered.

"Nah, nothing important. Sophie sent me to bring you… you had no idea what was I saying, right?" She waited until he nodded, then continued. "And what was that yelling and snarling at me down on the street about?"

Now was his turn to try to remember – she knew it wasn't fair to use his unfocused state, but their talk in the van showed her how rare and precious the moments without all of his shields were. This one seemed to be another chance to see him, the real Eliot, not that strange guardian role he played.

"It was stupid, reckless, dangerous, completely useless and-" he struggled for more words but he gave up. "Mostly stupid. You're a client. Clients don't jump on mobsters while the team is two meters away. If that wasn't Patrick, you would be dead in two seconds. Did I mention reckless? And dangerous?"

"And completely useless. Yes, you did." She studied him, noticing the flicker of anger that memory brought: it would be better to change the subject. "This is by far the weirdest apology I've ever heard."

"I wasn't apol-"

"You did. You explained. That's all I need. I need to understand what's going on, then I can accept everything." She waited, but the hint was clearly too light to catch, he didn't react. After a few moments he carefully touched the band aid above his eyebrow, and winced again.

She waited more. "I'm a sucker for information," she continued lightly, taking the last sip of whiskey. "That's research stuff – with enough data, you can do anything, understand anything. Being kept in the dark is the worst thing for me."

He poked the cold pizza with one finger, looking at it with a tilted head.

She could bet his eyes couldn't be duller than this, and she stopped an irritated sigh; he was playing her.

"You took that whiskey, or did Nate pour it for you?" he suddenly asked.

"Nate. Why?"

His eyes were sharp again in less than a second. "What happened while we slept?"

"Brewer canceled M7. It's official now, yet not announced. What does Nate's whiskey-" she fell silent, watching him destroying all the combined effects of the relaxants and painkillers, clearing his mind almost visibly.

"Nate said that was just Plan A," she said wearily, expecting who knew what amount of rage again, but he smiled.

"_That_'s the worrying part," he said softly, then stood up with slow, stiff moves. He looked beaten to the bone, unable to straighten up.

_What the hell happened in that slaughterhouse_? How did they escape from ten armed killers? The few short sentences that Hardison provided clearly were enough for Nate, he didn't ask more, but she didn't get it. Asking Eliot now didn't sound like a good idea, so she just waited while he inspected the room again. She would press Hardison tomorrow.

"We are way behind on watching your episodes." It wasn't what she expected as a result of his thinking. "Do you have something important to do now? Can you watch it with me?

"Only waking up Hardison. But you shouldn't – you should-"

"We are still on the Season Two. Three episodes now, and the rest in the morning, after sleep, okay?"

"But why?"

He turned to her again, hesitating. "Nate wanted me to do it. His plans are mostly indescribable until executed, and they're all simmering at the same time, in different stages… watching your show is part of one of them."

"And you didn't ask why it's important?"

"No."

She understood. She had one director whom she trusted without any questions, any explanations – she could give him a script and be sure he would shoot it exactly how she wanted it.

"I won't have time for the podcasts, commentaries and all the additions on the discs, so I'll need you to talk about it – you have to tell me everything that comes to your mind. You have to… to…"

"You want me to babble?" she offered helpfully.

A quickly suppressed grin crinkled his eyes. "Exactly. But quietly, we don't want to wake 'em up."

He pulled up the episode they stopped watching in the middle and Florence brought the pizza and Hardison's strange juice, trying not to think that the sofa in front of the screens was actually her bed now, with blankets and pillows. Orion, as standard equipment, volunteered to help them with the pizza, and the first fifteen minutes was less watching and commenting, and more of a united effort to keep his little paws away from crust.

She didn't know what Nate wanted with this, and how he knew two days ago that it would be necessary, but she surely knew she wouldn't get any explanation even if she asked him. Instead of worrying further, she just relaxed, whispering about all the funny things, problems and tricks of TV show business. She avoided looking at Eliot, still not sure if she would reveal somehow that she knew about his nightmares and all that talk with Hardison. Those people were dangerously precise at reading everything she tried to hide, but she made peace with herself. She did know something she shouldn't have known… but at the same time, they knew her much more than she liked.

Reciprocity. She could live with that.

She put aside all the fears that tomorrow would wake up again and erased nine dead and seventeen wounded in _Estrella_ from her mind. She also tried to ignore that she was sitting next to a man who's presence was disturbing her to the point of being aware of his every move, every breath. She kept her eyes on the screen.

Some tasks were harder than others.

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	21. Chapter 21

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An explosion woke him up, but he didn't jump or open his eyes, he just remained still with his eyes closed. Yet, he couldn't stop the one sharp inhale, his racing heartbeat needed more air. He panicked for a moment, not knowing where he was and what exploded, which fucking night this was, but before he could sink into fear again, a quiet voice penetrated through the gunshots echoing in his mind.

"Good morning, Eliot."

Parker's voice. He relaxed instantly.

"Five in the morning, no explosions, just thunder somewhere near. Everybody's sleeping but I can't, my head hurts," she continued quietly. "I'm waking Hardison up every hour, and I'll wake up Florence soon to take over again. Go back to sleep."

He opened his eyes and looked at the thief sitting on the table above him, swinging her legs. Talking. _Alive_.

"George is going to sulk for days," he said.

"Ah," she frowned. "You're right. Good morning, George. Good morning Orion."

He lifted himself to sit, cursing silently when that simple move stirred all the different pains scattered all over, and discovered the cat at the bottom of the bed. One piece of pizza between his paws and a victorious glare.

"We need to find something to occupy him," he murmured, looking around. The first light of dawn was pale and barely visible, and only a small light in the kitchen gave the dark shadows a yellow tint.

"I'll pass that suggestion on to Nate. He'll know what to do."

"What are you doing?"

"Counting."

"What-" He stopped, but too late.

"Minutes and hours. I had to calculate yesterday's hours into Betsy's order of twenty three point five hours of rest per day, and added to the previous amount, you're now at minus three weeks and two days. I'll have to talk to her. You're _downgrading_."

"You know she said that just because – you can't just – Parker, stop taking everything so damn literally – Jesus." Another lightening strike showed him her grin, and he seriously thought she was just mocking him, but with Parker both was possible at the same time. "Just go to sleep, I'll take over now."

"No way. That would be three weeks, two days and at least two hours-"

"Okay, okay, just go away."

"Good night," she beamed at him and walked away, leaving him to exchange glances with the cat. Orion chewed his breakfast, leaving crumbs on the blanket.

Eliot sighed and lowered himself into the pillows again, trying to calm down enough to sleep again.

Strange, but the gunshots were gone.

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"What the fuck have you done?!"

Though Hardison's wailing was the level of a whisper, it penetrated the double pillow barrier that Florence had on her head for the last fifteen minutes of their irritating chatting, and she threw them both in the air and jumped out of the bed ready to start killing.

"Why aren't you all drugged and quiet?" she hissed at the three of them; Eliot was sitting at the dining table with lots of huge white cups and a plant in front of him, Parker was hanging upside down from the winding stairs by one leg, holding a bag of ice on her head, and Hardison was walking to and fro in front of the table, keeping one hand over one eye, and squinting with the other.

"We were quiet, until he started destroying office equipment!" Hardison pointed an accusing finger at the table, receiving a glare from behind the cups.

Well, fuck decency; Parker was wearing Nate's old pajamas too, so she could walk around in hers. Florence went to see what the cause of Hardison's consternation was.

All the white cups had the _Leverage Consulting & Associates_ logo on them, as well as the similar white vase with the plant, except that every single _Associates_ on them was scratched out with thick black marker pen, and replaced with IDIOTS, in huge letters.

"I'm not destroying office equipment," Eliot snarled at the hacker. "I'm _upgrading_ it."

Parker's giggle sounded drunker now than in the middle of yesterday's mess. Hardison hissed a curse and grabbed the plant.

"Okay, I have a hostage now. Put away the pen, and back away from the cups, now!"

Florence would run away in panic any other time, having seen Eliot's slow getting up, if she hadn't learned when their arguing was serious, and when they were just bickering. She went closer.

"I could drop him," Hardison warned, taking one step back. He held the vase with both hands – and Florence noticed how careful he actually was not to drop it – so he shut his eyes because he couldn't keep his hand on the one eye any longer.

Eliot's expression was a mixture of annoyance and a painful smile. "If one leaf falls off of him, Hardison, one single leaf…"

"Wait, wait, wait…" Florence took the vase from Hardison. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Morning." Eliot took the plant from her before Hardison focused enough to reach for it again. "And he hasn't stop talking since he woke up."

"I noticed that." For the first time in her life, her voice sounded like a snarl, and she seriously thought about what a bad influence those people were. "Where're Nate and Sophie?"

"Sophie will come soon, and Nate sneaked out half an hour ago," Parker reported. "He's probably at McRory's, drinking. I told him that we have to think of something funny for Orion – maybe that was the trigger. He rolled his eyes and just stormed out." Parker straightened herself and climbed down, coming to the table with careful, slow steps, squinting at the sun coming from the window. "I noticed a bag full of almonds in the kitchen," she continued when she sat. "If nobody wants them, maybe we can just empty it on the floor and let the cat slide through-"

"Nope. Stay away from that," Eliot said before she could finish. "And stop watching cartoons, you're _downgrading_."

"Blergh," Hardison went to lower the shades and Florence was grateful for that, feeling the first signs of a headache.

"I'm bored," Parker stated, frowning. She put the bag of ice on the top of her head and just let it sit there.

In just one second, the bickering was forgotten, and the two men exchanged worried glances.

"We'll continue watching the episodes," Eliot said carefully. "You can join us, if you don't mind jumping into the third season."

"The third?" Florence asked. They were in the middle of the second around three in the morning. Did he continue to watch it while she was sleeping, from her _bed_?

"I was awake two times during the night, so I put the DVD in my laptop," Eliot nodded to the table near his bed.

"I was thinking about the laptop and that Farmville thingy," Hardison said, covering one eye again and sitting at the table. "I think Betsy is using it as surveillance. Some sort of twisted nanny camera – she can monitor your crops, time of growing, and when, exactly, you do things. I wouldn't be surprised if she knew every step-"

"Hardison, I'm the one who is paranoid, stop with the-"

"When Betsy is in question, no one can be paranoid enough. Mark my words, one day, that will prove to be a fatal mistake, and it will be used against you. Just wait and see. You go watch it, I can't…I'll try to find some info on our new sand excavating friends – though I have no idea how. I should make a black patch for one eye, it's the only way not to see double – and you all can be my Avengers, heh," he grinned at the very thought of it. "You would be a perfect Hulk if you weren't _permanently_ in rage mode… so you can be Thor. Not so bright, rude and violent, and obsessed with your hair. Parker can be-"

"Will you shut the fuck up? My hair is none of your busin-"

"Rude."

"Will you, _please_, shut the fuck up?"

Hardison grinned at his menacing tone. "Go, go, have fun watching… I'll just sit here, crawling out of my skin, unable to type, to do my research, to do _anything._"

Florence seriously thought about hyperventilation.

"Did you seen it?" Hardison continued cheerfully.

"See what?" Eliot growled.

"Your brain, man. You just rolled your eyes so high you must have seen it. Is there an alien in it? A crop-growing, laptop-typing little green alien-"

"That's it," Eliot turned on his heel and stormed away with the plant, followed by Orion who didn't take his eyes from it. He put the vase on the coffee table by the sofa, and darted one warning glance to the cat that peeked over the sofa in hunter mode.

Florence suddenly became aware that they all would watch it, again, and quickly went through all the episodes in her mind, trying to find any dangerous trigger.

She missed Sophie. _A lot._

Parker was nervously tapping her wounded leg, as if trying to speed its recovery, Hardison was poking at the laptop with one finger and a painful grimace, and Eliot was radiating annoyance – they clearly weren't used to immobility. No wonder Nate ran.

"You'll be glad to hear that the main theme of the Season Three is Patience," she said sweetly, and went into the bathroom.

This was going to be a very long morning.

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Four episodes, three bowls of popcorn, and two more arguments later, Eliot said he had enough of watching. Sophie had arrived in the meantime and joined them, and both she and Parker continued with one more episode.

Florence used the fact that Eliot wasn't watching, so there was no need for her comments, and joined Hardison who was still doing something on the laptop, struggling with a headache and his vision.

She wanted to ask him about the slaughterhouse, but Eliot was walking all around the room, from window to window, unable to stay still. If that was rest and recovery, he was doing it wrong – Betsy strictly said he should be in the bed.

Restless, that was the right word. It seemed that nobody paid any attention to his mood, and only she was getting nervous because of it.

"So, besides hacking, you fight too?" she asked Hardison, pointing at his head, when she calculated Eliot was at the farthest part of the room, by two windows that looked on McRory's entrance.

Hardison sighed, glancing somewhere beside her. "Nah… yes, I fought one giant mobster. Bloodthirsty. Bat shit crazy and _illogical_."

The strange sound of his last word warned her even before Eliot said anything.

"Just tell her, Hardison," he said, only a few steps behind her. He pulled up a chair and sat at the table with them. Sophie went to the kitchen but stopped by the table as well, and Florence said goodbye to a private conversation with Hardison.

"Instead of asking me nicely to pretend to be knocked out, he, well, knocked me out for real."

Eliot darted him a lazy smile. "As soon as we see your ability to pretend to be unconscious when hit by a metal pole, or stabbed with a knife, I'll willing to admit my mistake. We can try it now if you want, and practice daily."

"It seems it's more dangerous to be your ally than your enemy," she said lightly, but she erased her smile when she met his eyes, all traces of warmth fading from them.

"Yes, it is." He said it flat and cold.

"Eliot, stop sc-"

"I'm not scaring her," he cut off Sophie's words. "I'm warning her."

She fell silent for a moment, then fixed him with a hard stare. "Warning me about what? You, them, danger, the weather, _what_?! You will have to articulate your warnings and be more precise if you want to be taken seriously. Solemn and random proclamations are just getting on my nerves. If you have to say something to me, say it. Now."

"You're caught in the middle of something you don't understand." If her words had woken any anger, it wasn't heard in his voice, it remained flat. "I told you already… when a job starts, it has nothing to do with an initiator. And the initiator can face herself with things she didn't want to happen, to see, or even think about. Because we do our job our way. Our _ways_."

Knowing what she knew about him and his _ways_ of deal with threats, she flinched inwardly. He _was_ scaring her, and he did it on purpose. No, he has been doing it from the beginning, preparing her for all the things they might have to do.

Before she could answer, Sophie raised her hand to stop the discussion. "Florence isn't a fragile little flower, Eliot, and she won't wither if she sees danger. She handled a car chase pretty well. I was driving."

"Thank you, Sophie, but that's not necessary," she said.

"A car chase," Eliot repeated, rubbing his temples. He looked as if he was about to add something to it, but he just shook his head and got up.

Uh-oh, that looked just like how he got up before smashing the window. Florence kept her mouth shut, just in case, not quite certain why she was making him so irritated. And she wasn't the only one who sensed it, because Sophie's eyes were steady on him, studying his posture.

He just stood there, glancing over the room, thinking who knows what – no visible trace of anger, again, but the aura of turmoil was so clear around him that she couldn't believe Hardison and Parker didn't notice. Or maybe they did, but they knew what the best thing to do was – let it pass.

"I need fresh air," he said, taking his phone. "And before you start lecturing, I'll only go to the street and back, okay?"

Parker's huff sounded ominous, but nobody said a word to stop him.

Florence sighed, thinking about how to do something to improve the mood.

Now she missed Nate. A lot.

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Actually, he was doing surprisingly good, though he had to keep one hand on the wall while climbing down the stairs. He thought he would only be able to vegetate in the bed after all that slaughterhouse shit, but except for the bruises and pain with every move, he wasn't feeling weak. Okay, not weaker than usual. That was encouraging – a very small step toward recovery, but still a step in the right direction.

But it didn't improve his mood, nor lessen the urge to crawl out of his skin.

He didn't need fresh air, he needed silence, desperately, their voices has started to mix into one giant ball of noise, growing louder, driving him nuts.

He opened the back door behind McRory's just to peek outside, but when he saw his car parked at the end of the street, he slowly went to look at it. Hardison probably got it in the first few days after they brought him here. It was clean, and even the two bullet holes in the trunk had disappeared.

He tried not to think about getting into the car and driving away. He knew he wouldn't stop before he reached the Pacific.

Before that thought took root, he returned inside, to the back room where they had briefings with clients, now empty. Only a round table, chairs and boards were in it, and it looked, and sounded, like the perfect place to sit in peace and just listen to the silence.

He left the doors open to hear if someone approached, sat at the table, and closed his eyes. Just breathing.

His oxygen mask was lost somewhere in that slaughterhouse labyrinth, so that part was over. No more crutches to help him stand on his own, it was time to get this shit straight.

He rested his elbows on the table and ran both hands through his hair, trying to keep the annoyance and rage at the lowest levels he could; he had been caged in that apartment too long, and he wondered how he'd managed not to snap already. It wasn't their fault – it wasn't Florence's fault either - yet the walls around him, and inside him, were still not breaking. Maybe it was time to start crushing them down, instead of negotiating with them.

She was too relaxed with them, and that was a problem, that was bugging him. He thought she would freak out when he broke a window, but she behaved as if it didn't happen at all. She treated him like normal, she had no idea what… Damn, he couldn't, simply couldn't stand that, that… misconception.

Every time she smiled at him, he had that urge to tell her who he really was, and that she should spare those smiles; of course that was utter bullshit, he couldn't say that, but that need to tell her was what worried him.

Undeserved…what? Friendship? It wasn't friendship, it was just a forced relationship, built from need; whatever it was, it was false because she didn't know anything about him and the things he had done, and she was smiling at an image she created in her head. She thought he was the same as the others and that made his skin crawl.

Shit, he was tired of keeping everything under control, he was beaten and unstrung, exhausted to the bone - he fought his own brain to be able to function every fucking time he woke up - and he definitely didn't need a clueless writer to disturb him further. He especially didn't need her to occupy his thoughts when he already had trouble focusing on his own problems.

As if that focusing provided any result, added a dark voice in his head; as if it helped when only darkness and a few gunshots deranged him to the point of losing it completely.

He lowered his hands on the table, watching them starting to shake at the mere memory, and another wave of rage flashed over him. It would be so easy to thrust them both into the wall, again and again, until the crushed remains stopped shaking-

When a quick shadow fell over his shoulder, he just reacted, driven with the need to move. He spun around, striking with an open palm – a blow that should hit every opponent in the middle of the chest and send him staggering a few steps back.

It was pure luck that Florence was so short, because it hit her high in the shoulder. She flew backwards, all four meters to the wall, and crashed hard with her back and head. He just stared at her, frozen in the middle of a breath, while she slowly slid down the wall like a doll with cut strings.

For one moment, longer than an eternity, she looked at him with wide open eyes. She blinked a few times, bewildered, then drew in one shaky breath, while he was still unable to move or breathe… and then she burst into laughter.

Just then he breathed, listening to that clear, crystal sound of pure joy, not quite comprehending why she was laughing… but that sound gave him the strength to go a step closer.

"So, I am an ally now, right?" she managed to say after one moment.

"What?" he whispered. He kneeled before her, not daring to touch her – she hit her head hard, she slammed into the wall with full force, she could have broken bones or – Jesus, he could've killed her, if he didn't strike with the palm, but the fist, he could break her neck with one hit, not even noticing –

She giggled again, and that smile beamed like the sun. "I passed the initiation – but don't shoot me, that would make a mess."

"Florence, I'm sor-" his try was stopped with one small hand raised in front of his face – she frowned at him.

"No, don't say that," she said. "This is the first time in my life that someone hit me – don't ruin that experience with an apology, let me savor it while it lasts. I wrote numerous hits, I wrote literally dozens of people flying into walls, and now I _know_ how it feels. Thank you."

Okay, this _was_ a concussion. There wasn't any other explanation. He stopped the panicky urge to pull out his phone and call Betsy immediately, and raised his hand. "How many fingers do you see?"

"Forty two," she beamed. "The answer is always forty two. And stop looking so shocked, there's no need for that." She looked at him and tilted her head, adding more seriously, "I mean it. I should've known better than to sneak up on you. I'm sorry."

"Are you out of your fucking mind?!" He tried to snarl at her, really tried, but all he managed was a choked whisper. "_You are sorry_?! You? What-"

"What a drama queen you are," she smiled again. "Good thing I'm not. Good thing I can see this as something funny, and no big deal… because it really isn't. I surprised you, you acted instinctively, and as you should – so what? In fact, it's comforting to know you're so quick."

He sat on his heels, just staring at her – yes, he needed to shake his head to erase the image of some other man sitting on his heels in a dark back street – and her smile faded.

"Okay, I know I don't act like a normal person, sometimes," she said with a suddenly uncertain voice. "Normal women would cry and sulk, or yell, or whatever – but I can't pretend and act. I have to admit I despise them, many of them make drama out of anything, and this really isn't something to…This was… a surprising experience. And it was funny. No, it was fucking _awesome_."

What the hell she was talking about? Her not being normal? He wanted to laugh, but he still couldn't breathe normally, the fear was still too strong.

"I'm weird. Even by TV business standards," she went on without a pause. "I guess all writers are a little weird, we act more and more like our characters – and trust me, when you have seven violent guys, being thrown into the wall is something welcomed, because it gives you experience and knowledge." She bit her lip, looking more and more unhappy. "I'm babbling again, right? Sometimes I just can't stop, words are just coming out-"

"Yep. Stop it. Be quiet for a second and tell me where you hurt. You hit your head and back. What else?"

She shifted a little, and winced. "Head is okay, just ringing in my ears, but no more than when I once slammed it into a cupboard… and my back is okay."

"Shoulder?"

"A little, but… fuck, this is embarrassing," she put both her hands on the floor and rested her weight on them, grimacing. "You know, guys may hit walls with their shoulders, or head, or… but we don't."

"We? Who? What-"

"I'll have problems sitting, okay?!" she hissed. Pink colored her cheeks and she frowned when she felt she was blushing. "Just disgraceful," she continued with an unhappy murmur. "First hit in my life, and no, I can't have something remarkable and dignified, a bruise, or black eye, something like that. I had to hit my…Bleh."

She tapped her fingers on the floor. He stared at her.

Dammit, she was adorable. In so many damn ways. Surprising, fresh, adorable, all in one weird package. He knew he should say something, but he had no words to tell her how normal she really was, and how easy it was to- He just sat there like an idiot, and stared, unable to form two fucking words into a fucking sentence-

"Am I interrupting something?" Nate's voice from the door behind him stirred them both, and he bit out a curse. He left his back unprotected, with an open door behind him.

"Oh, Nate!" Florence raised her head to the door and a smile lit her face again. "He hit me and slammed me into the wall! You should've seen it, I was _flying_!"

"Oh? Sounds really exciting. May I ask why?" There wasn't any change in Nate's slightly ironic tone, but he didn't turn around to face him and look at his eyes.

"I tried to tap him on the shoulder," she sighed. "I wasn't thinking- where are you going?"

"Be right back," Nate's voice answered already in the hall. "Stay there."

She looked at him again. "Where is he going?"

"If he is smart, to get a shotgun," he managed to smile.

"We have a shotgun? That's cool."

"No, we don't, I was just-"

"So he'll get one? We do need it, you have to agree, liking guns or not."

"No, he won't get a shotgun, we don't do guns."

"Then why did you say that?"

"Never mind," he sighed. "Follow my hand with your eyes, and don't blink."

She huffed in annoyance but did what he told her – no problem focusing, her pupils were normal, and she didn't look like she was dizzy.

"I told you I'm okay. Now help me get up."

He was the one that needed help, his knees were rubbery when he hoisted himself to his feet and pulled her up. Just in case, he slowly sank into the chair, watching her posture and moves while she patted her pants and shirt from the dust. It ended with her turning around the axis, trying to clean her back, with a few little squeaks when she hit or touched certain spots – and he caught himself hiding a smile.

Nate returned with a bottle and two glasses.

"You okay, pixie?" he asked.

"Of course. Where's the shotgun?"

"What?"

"So we really don't have any? Damn, shotguns are so useful. One shotgun and we can cover the entire corridor in case of another attack, even I can do it, there's no need to be a sharpshooter, just point and pull the trigger in the general direction-"

"Do me a favor, and go on up, will 'ya? Tell them we'll be there in a few minutes."

"No problem." She darted them one more smile, frowned a little at him, as a reminder not to make drama again, and left. They both watched her leave in silence.

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He was still looking after her, trying to see if she was limping slightly, when Nate pushed a glass into his hands.

"You're okay?" Nate asked sitting in the opposite chair, facing him.

The question demanded an honest answer, and he struggled to frame it. "No, not really. But I will be." He took the whiskey in one sip, knowing what that showed Nate, but he didn't care. "Things are not going as fast as they should," he continued quietly.

"According to Betsy, the things are going precisely as they should."

"I told you I was unreliable, Nate. I blacked out in the slaughterhouse; I had no idea where I was. I stood frozen, watching one of them pulling the trigger, and if Hardison didn't come back for me, he would've killed me. I slammed a girl into a wall. I didn't hear you coming up behind me. I can't do my job, and if I try, you might all get killed."

Nate poured him another one, and the silence spread while he was thinking.

"Well… are we talking about the slaughterhouse with ten armed men, which you all left alive, against all odds? After we believed you couldn't climb the stairs? That's sound pretty reliable to me. Also, Florence might be hit, but she is alive. You didn't kill her – you could," Nate let out a small smile. "I understand that in your eyes, your performance is shitty… but you're still better than anyone I know, and anyone they have. I only see results, Eliot, not what ifs in the process, and you should try that too."

He should've known better than to let him start with logic, that was a lost battle against Nate, always. Yet some things couldn't be solved with logic. He thought for a moment about continuing, forcing him to understand, but no – Nate understood completely, he was just trying to show him the other point of view. Useless, but appreciated.

"Yes, maybe I should try it," he agreed. "But don't tell me later that I didn't warn you."

Nate nodded. "She'll be okay?" He changed the subject, there was nothing more to say.

"Yep, she is… very normal. Pixie? Seriously? You gave a nickname to a client. You like her."

"Shit happens," Nate smiled, but his eyes were steady on him, calm and serious. "Do _you_ like her, or are you still thinking she would be better left killed?"

Well, he should've expected that.

"Thinking objectively, that option was relevant only in the beginning," he eyed him, searching for signs in his face, finding none. "Why don't you look upset by that?"

"Because you can think whatever you want, later. But when the first attack happened, your instinctive reaction was to help her, and only that matters. You should stick to that, and not ponder all the scary shit your brain produces. Trust me, scary shit is something completely normal, I went through tons of that on my walk." Nate poured them another drink and went on. "Our thoughts don't define us. Our actions do."

He cleared his throat.

"Okay, not always, and not all of them," Nate squinted a little. "Actions can't be seen without motives behind them."

"Stop while you're ahead."

"Good idea."

"You know we have only a few minutes more to talk, before a rescue party charges down the stairs?"

"I know. But it won't be Hardison and Parker this time, Sophie wouldn't let her come because of the leg. The only way to keep her upstairs is to offer to go with Hardison instead of her, and if I calculated correctly the time Florence needed to tell them what happened, the decision, and Sophie's arguments, they should be here right-"

"Oh, there you are," Sophie sang from the door. "We were just coming to see if you were in McRory's. What are you doing?"

"Well, _your_ brain is a scary place," Eliot smiled.

"Thank you."

"Florence said something about a shotgun," Hardison added, sweeping the room with his eyes – nope, with one eye, he kept the other closed. "You went out to buy a shotgun? That actually sounds like a good idea."

Eliot shrugged when Nate looked at him. "I have no idea how a shotgun came into the conversation," he said calmly.

"You're coming up, or still want to talk?" Sophie asked.

"Yep, we are coming up," Nate slowly said. "I was thinking while walking, and it's time to start. We have work to do."

They all fell silent.

"A briefing?" Hardison sighed. "I don't have enough info, Nate, I'm too slow-"

"We have time." Nate glanced at him before he added, "and we have enough scary shit to work on while we complete your data."

"That sounds… like you had a very productive walk," Sophie added cautiously. "Can we go up now?" she said, leaving no doubt what the correct answer should be, so they both stood up. She smiled, turned and went upstairs, Hardison following her.

"I didn't answer your question," he stopped Nate at the door. "I do like her. A lot."

Nate nodded.

He wasn't sure if he was ready for the rest of the alphabet that was going to be unleashed on their heads, now when Plan A had failed – but he knew for certain, by the spark in Nate's eyes, that it was going to be one hell of a ride.

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	22. Chapter 22

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Hallucinations again, check. One client nearly killed, check. Teammate with a concussion, check. Hands still shaking, check. Unable to do his job, check.

He should make another list, Eliot thought absentmindedly while sitting on the sofa, seemingly relaxed, watching the commercials, and radiating a back off warning that would hopefully repel Sophie; she was pacing around him in an increasingly smaller circles.

Tired of everything. And everyone. Mostly of himself, but that was an old story.

He tried not to pay any attention to the fuss behind his back. They all huddled around the dining table – Sophie around Florence – and only Nate was moving around, sometimes in front of him. He decided not to look at him, but after his third trip to the two windows that overlooked the street, close to the stairs, he noticed he was plucking the bags that were gathered in the corner and under the windows, along with other smaller stuff from another apartment.

There was a huge possibility that Nate was just yanking his attention to something; but whatever, he decided to check what was so interesting in those bags later. And why right now. What was precisely the thing that Nate would like to provoke with this, but hell, he didn't care anymore, about anything. He was too drained with his own shit, someone else's shit was too hard to handle.

He tried to forget he'd woken up feeling almost human, almost close to being _rested_.

Yes, surprisingly, there was one bright thing in this day… he thought he wouldn't be able to get out of bed, but he was doing much better that he expected after their little trip. Though, since he almost killed a client shortly after, maybe it would be the best for everybody if he just crawled into bed again.

A delicate hand put a glass of juice in front of his face.

"I have a question," Sophie said.

He stared at the juice, and the straw in the glass. _A fucking straw_. For one moment he seriously considered if she was doing it on purpose, if she was trying to _make_ him remember that terrace in Estrella, the slushie, the straw, Villacorta and all that shit. It lasted less than a heartbeat, but the damage was done, all Bugueno's replies went through his head. A lot of dead people were talking in his head lately.

"No, Sophie, I don't want to talk to you, I'm fine, I don't need fucking therapy," he snarled, shooting a glare at her. She stopped in mid step, strangely uncertain for a second. _Stop, for Christ's sake, just stop talking._ "Why don't you go and practice on someone who actually cares?"

She slowly put the glass on the coffee table. "I wanted to ask you about your clothes," she said quietly, her voice flat. "Do you want some from your place, or do you want me to buy new stuff? I'm going shopping this afternoon, after the briefing."

He took one long, slow breath, held it a second, then exhaled. Only a glance to his pajamas reminded him he didn't remember he changed, and another wave of anger rushed over him. But this time he managed to direct it away from innocent bystanders.

"Thank you," he produced the same tone of voice, calm and flat. "Whatever is okay with you."

"If you think of something particular, let me know," she smiled then, her usual, gentle smile, before she turned away and moved back to the others.

_Snap at__Sophie without any reason, check_.

He sank deeper in the sofa. Just then he remembered she maybe wanted to ask him a different question – maybe she finally wanted to tell him what was bothering her, what she had started when they talked in the bathroom. Just great.

What was the next thing he could do? Strangle the cat?

He had to stop with this, ASAP; he really had to write down every time he told himself that he ought to be nice to them. The results were awesome for now.

Nate went, again, between him and the screens, going to the bags.

This briefing they had prepared was going to put his every fucking nerve to the test, so he started to calm them down, one by one.

The juice had a strange color. It wasn't Hardison's poison, Sophie had squeezed fresh oranges. Probably organic, too.

He closed his eyes and sighed.

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Nate and Sophie did everything necessary to make it look like the official briefing; their tall workstation had been replaced by the sofa and coffee table a few days before, so they brought the other smaller table from under the stairs, and put it facing the screens. Eliot moved from the sofa, not wanting to be squeezed again, and took a chair to the side. They even brought the large panels, both glass and wood boards, from McRory's back room.

He was surprised they didn't bring the huge round poker table – with that, the room would be filled completely. And one dog. They needed a dog, too, to make the picture complete. Jesus… he tried to erase his car from his mind. _So close. So… mobile_.

Nate lined all of them onto the sofa and remained standing.

Hardison was closest to him, Florence and Parker in the middle, and Sophie near Nate – he noticed Florence brought a pillow to sit on it, and he gritted his teeth. Much to his surprise, she glanced at him with something akin to mischief in her eyes, and grinned – as if they were sharing something funny. She still didn't look disturbed by what happened, and he had no idea _how_.

"I wasn't just walking and thinking… I was shopping as well." Nate opened one of two small packages that sat beside him on the table, and emptied it on the coffee table. He stared at several small cylindrical objects. He bought fucking _pens_?

Parker squealed, grabbing one immediately, and Florence and Sophie also leaned closer to look at them.

"Not in the eyes, Park-"

Nate's warning was too slow; a red flash directly into his eyes erased Parker's grin when she turned and pointed it at him, causing him to flinch – _fucking laser pointers_? They were all crazy, for god's sake, he was surrounded by idiots.

He covered his eyes. "Stop it, Parker! Nate, are you insane?"

"She said we need to occupy Orion, I thought it was important." As an answer to his words, the cat jumped over his head like a flying squirrel, with all four paws spread out, and chased the red dots on the wall under the screen. He stared at them, not believing – four red dots were dancing on the wall, in the middle of the fucking briefing… All of a sudden, Hardison had no problem focusing when pointing the red dot onto his leg, trying to make Orion to jump on him.

"Can we just, I don't know… maybe start the fucking briefing?" _Be nice_. "Please?"

"But of course," Nate said, pulling one the big glass display boards closer, though nothing was written on it yet, nor were any papers pinned. "May I have your attention, please?"

He waited until all the lasers, except Parker's of course, were put aside.

"We can all agree that we are severely crippled for the next, let's say, two or three days, so our actions will be adjusted according to that."

"I'm not crippled, I'm just limping," Parker said stretching her leg in an almost impossible angle. Her demonstration was slightly ruined by a grimace that flew over her face. He wasn't sure if that was a headache, though.

"We have no thief," Nate said almost gently.

Parker snorted. "Two days, and I'll be able to do anything," she said.

"We have no hacker."

Hardison quickly opened his one closed eye and tried to stare at Nate steadily. "I can function now, just slower. I'll be fine tomorrow."

"And finally, we have no hitter," Nate said, darting a smile at him.

"I can…" he trailed off. Just a half an hour ago he told Nate he couldn't do his job. He paused, tried again. "I can't… I can…"

He told him he couldn't be trusted, so he was the only one to blame for this – but fuck everything, there was no way he would sit in bed while they all went around chasing mobsters. An unreliable hitter was better than no hitter at all. But, he reminded himself, it was better to have no hitter at all, than to have one who could screw everything up and get them killed.

Nate patiently waited, watching him with unreadable eyes. _Manipulative bastard_.

He'd been played, but that damn motherfucker did it on so many levels that he lost count of it while trying to decipher the initial motive. _Fuck. _Was he doing what Nate wanted, and what had Nate wanted in the first place? To admit he couldn't do things, or to say he could? And why?

His brain followed one thread of motives, got stuck, hissed and died. "You'll so pay for this," he said, staring into his eyes. Nate just smirked.

He collected himself and sighed. "I'll choose what I can, and what I can't do, okay? And that means that your plans have to calculate that – nothing too risky, Nate."

"I would _never_," Nate said innocently. "By the way, I said we can't do anything concrete during the next two or three days, remember? There are, though, things we can do while waiting for you all to start functioning again, before... more serious doings later."

It wasn't waiting for them _all_ to start functioning, he knew that, he didn't have to meet his eyes again. He had a deadline to get his shit together. Two days of peace, because of and for him, and after that, hell would be unleashed. It was up to him if he would be a part of it or not.

"Your decision," Nate said just that, following his every thought.

It seemed only Sophie caught for whom those two days were meant, to swim or sink, judging by the uncertain glance she threw at Nate, and he knew he would be attacked with different life-saving belts very soon. _Just wonderful_. But, Nate's return to senseless-bastard mode was a change that was more than welcomed – his understanding and care was freaking him out.

"I was wondering," Florence suddenly trailed in, thoughtfully, breaking the sudden silence. "Can we persuade Cora to come up here dressed in a swimming suit?"

They all looked at her.

She smiled gently and blinked. "You know, like those girls in the movies, that go into the ring with a huge paper with a number, announcing the next round?" Her voice lost its softness and became pissed off hiss. "Only in this case, instead of a number, she can have a sign: another fucking undercurrent in the room, No. 19!"

Even he had a problem hiding a smile, though he didn't feel like smiling at all.

"Look, it's simple," Nate pointed at him. "He's nagging. He's insecure and scared. We are trying to encourage him."

"What?" he choked. It wasn't something he would choose to joke about. "I won't fall for that, Nate, so stop. I know what I can do, and what I can't, that's all." Well, not exactly. The things he thought he could do went completely south, and at the same time he did things he was sure he was too weak for… a fucking mess.

The smile disappeared from Nate's face in a second. He slowly turned his head to him. "No, you don't know what you can and can't do." His words were deadly serious. "Not now. Not before you _decide_ you'll solve that shit."

This was going a lot faster than he could follow, dammit. "If necessary, I can do almost anything, and you know it," he said, knowing he was saying – no, that he was _lured_ to say - the opposite of what he said before – but the problem with truth was its fucking flexibility. He could do it – but he also knew all the dangers of it. And he definitely didn't need Nate to poke at him, showing him how fucking confused he was about- _Insecure and scared, seriously? Okay, maybe slightly, but-_

"Really?" Nate's hand moved faster than he'd ever seen it move and the other package from the table flew right at his face. His instinct moved his right hand – the one too slow, too weak, and too clumsy – he couldn't catch it, though he managed to stop it before it hit him in the face, sending it aside.

"You were able to catch it, and return it into my face in the same move, in one blink of an eye," Nate said slowly, losing him completely. He was going from 'you can do it' to 'you can't do it', faster than he could follow, and he was doing it on purpose. He tried to suppress his anger – he was no one's toy to be put into a desired state of mind. "Open it," Nate continued coldly.

Hardison picked up the small package, strangely silent.

He tore the paper and pulled out a shoulder holster with two knives.

"Unfortunately, no black," Nate said. "I was looking for quality knives, and only the brown leather version was acceptable."

"Praise the Lord!" Florence murmured in the background. "Finally, _a weapon_!"

He didn't look at her, though the urge to glare at her was unbearable, still staring at Nate.

"That slaughterhouse shit would have been much less dangerous if you had them then, right?" Nate hooked a hip on the table. "Or not? If you had them, would you be able to use them, _if needed_?"

And that question summed all that shit up.

"Yeah, I would've used them," he said slowly, all the rage draining from him. "I would've been able to use them." _If needed_. He could do anything if needed.

"Two knives against the Boston mafia, after a few days of danger," Florence continued her low murmur. "Not bad. In the next two days, maybe we can even get a baseball bat. I can already see our chances improving rapidly, so fast it's almost impossible to follow them with the eyes, they are just coming up pew, pew, pew-"

Sophie and Parker chuckled.

He put aside the holster and cleared his throat. "Briefing?" he said hopefully, seeing Nate eyeing a laser.

"You won't like it," Nate sighed, not quite meeting his eyes.

Well, he knew that already. He wouldn't like whatever job – wrong time for that. But they were here, in this mess, and they had no choice. He studied Nate's face; his light smile wasn't worried, though, it was slightly… sleazy.

He leaned back in the chair, crossed his arms, and prepared himself.

"This briefing will be a short one. I have to go with Sophie, because she can't go shopping alone… we need groceries."

Nate steadily met four shocked stares. Eliot glanced at Sophie, at her soft, gentle smile she threw to Nate. This was awkward. Groceries before the briefing?

"And, it happens that we have two separate cases that have to be solved differently, connected only by Florence. We have to get rid of Knudsen and Dvorak Security, and we have to steal a sixth season," he looked at all of them before he continued. "Because her problem with the mobsters has nothing to do with Michael Winslow."

Florence cleared her throat and raised her hand. "Knudsen is after me because _Winslow_ ordered him to kill me and take the USB with the recording of him talking about his business dirt, if I recall correctly," she stated. "Knudsen doesn't even know me, he has nothing with me… only Winslow does. And I still don't get why they continued to attack after we put him in jail, and the recording became irrelevant."

Nate just smiled. "The first stage of our plan will be saving Michael Winslow from a child pornography accusation. He _didn't_ order your murder, Florence. He did, however, everything we accused him of in front of Brewer, connected with your ratings, and he will pay for that. He won't work in TV business ever again. That's enough. You all agree that spending years in jail as a child molester is a little too much for taking money to push a few shows on the air?"

Before Eliot thought of what to say, Sophie whispered: "Backdoors. You mentioned the backdoors you left for him, I remember… you never leave a backdoor open for a Mark, Nate."

"Yes, Hardison will make visible for investigators that all the images he uploaded came from another source, using Winslow's IP as a decoy – he's kept it hidden for now." Nate nodded to the hacker, and Hardison started to poke his tablet.

"You knew something was wrong even when we were just going to break into C4 to plant evidence," Sophie said.

"Because from the beginning, his reaction wasn't following the action… it was overkill. I've told you already that the things he said weren't clear enough, any decent lawyer would beat the case in court. He wasn't threatened very much by that – and yet, he killed for it? Gave orders for a famous writer to get killed? Something wasn't quite right about that from the beginning, but now I think I connected a few dots." Nate sighed and pressed a button, and Knudsen and Winslow walked and talked in front of them one more time.

Eliot was studying Nate more than listening to their voices; the mastermind kept that slow smile, rarely seen in the middle of a briefing. He usually radiated manic energy. He wasn't sure if he was doing that to calm them all down, because they were forced to stay put for awhile, or if something else was being plotted in his head.

He caught Hardison's sideways glance in his direction, quick and light, and returned it the same. The hacker had noticed it too.

He had a very bad feeling about this. But, he had a very bad feeling about everything lately, so it was useless. He grabbed Orion when the cat tried to jump over his chair – he was still trying to catch the red dot that Parker walked on the floor. She frowned. Orion frowned too, but he kept him on the armrest.

Nate stopped the recording at the same frame he had been stopping it at every time he watched it – Eliot recalled now how many times he actually studied it – at the big image of Knudsen right before his man gave him the car keys. Eliot studied his bright, shark eyes once more. He even looked like a guy from the one of their previous jobs, the one that named himself after a fish.

"Hardison, pull up the pictures I gave you last night," Nate continued.

In a minute or two, the screens were filled with small pictures of the sand excavation camp, buildings, rows of bright yellow trucks, a huge parking lot surrounded by wire, different machinery, strange pools and one pickup truck. Eliot quickly scanned through the pictures, comparing the close images with what he'd seen from a distance, placing the buildings in the right spots. The complex was huge, and he was only able to see a small part of it, from the slaughterhouse yard.

"Hardison, when you're able, find as much as you can about these trucks, the tipper and dump ones, they are unusual. Now, remove all the buildings, pools, machinery and trucks."

Hardison divided the screens and in one half he put the remaining pictures, three pretty good images of a nice Ford Pickup.

"This is a Ford Super Duty F-250 DRW XL," Nate went on. "It was parked in a very special spot amongst trucks in the excavation camp's parking lot, covered and protected. Eliot, do you see anything significant on it?"

He studied the three pictures. One from the front, with registration plates, one from the side, and one showing its cargo space with packages. The image was slightly blurry because of rain, but the Chinese letters were visible on the boxes.

"The Red Guards," he said. "They were talking about the last three packages they had to deliver, so they wouldn't call the police to investigate the burglary at C4... But how can we know these are those packages? You said it was among the trucks. There's plenty of other…"

"We can't know. In a day or two, we shall find out."

"We're going into the slaughterhouse and sand excavation camp again?" Parker frowned – no, Parker deepened her permanent frown. "This rain will last for a week," she added with a sigh. "Do you want me to steal the pickup, or we shall only steal the packages?"

"Neither. Hardison, can you do a little magic, and zoom in Knudsen's image?"

"Sure," the hacker played with his tablet, keeping it at arm's length and slightly angled; he was sitting just one step from his chair, and Orion tried to grab the tablet. Eliot started to wonder when exactly their briefings started to be so damn surreal. They had a _cat_, for crying out loud.

The image on the screens became a blurred mess, then went smaller, then cleared, grew bigger, and finally, the close pan of Knudsen's hand occupied the entire screen.

"According to Hardison's files, Knudsen drives an old Corvette," Nate said slowly. He pressed a button and before their eyes, the insignia on the car keys became clear. _Ford_. "His man gave him Ford car keys. Your murdered cameraman, Florence, didn't record Winslow blathering about money for the shows. He recorded the delivery of something dangerous, for Knudsen."

Well, that was nice; Eliot almost smiled, but then he remembered all the trouble that would be connected to this particular plot and bit out a curse. Nate's smile didn't change, it seemed as if going after the old president of a TV company, or fighting against Don Lazzara's nephew with an army of organized, trained mobsters, was exactly the same to him.

"So you're saying that Knudsen wanted to kill me because _he_ was recorded taking the keys of some obscure pickup?" Florence sounded as she couldn't believe her eyes. "Just because someone, somewhere, somehow, might connect him to…that, whatever it is? That's crazy."

"No, that's how they work," Eliot said. "They wouldn't climb so high in their ranks if they weren't eliminating any _possibility_ of a screw up along the way. It's something important, and he obviously won't risk it." He stopped, suddenly not sure if he was being nice enough.

"He killed your cameraman for that." Nate added.

Whether he was nice or not, it seemed that the news hit her hard. It definitely wasn't easy to find out she was the real target because of something they knew nothing about – and knowing nothing about it, in her head that clearly meant that it couldn't be solved. Winslow was a much easier enemy than one of Boston's mob bosses.

She stopped looking at the screens, bowed her head and started fidgeting with a cup.

He went through his words and tone to see if he had been too stern, but he was pretty sure he said it normally, without growling.

She had a little crooked smile, he noticed it just then. When she smiled, the left side made a small dimple, just one. It was visible even now, when she held her head low, so her short locks brushed her nose. It didn't always appear when she smiled, but only when she was worried, and her smile was slightly twisted and forced.

Just now he remembered he noticed that tell in the van when they talked. The conversation was blurry, but that uncertain, twisted smile was clear in his mind. The sudden wish to erase that worry and make her smile without that painful twist caught him unprepared and he bit his lip, not quite satisfied with that. He shouldn't think about that at all. He shouldn't be affected by one damn unhappy smile. He shouldn't stare at her in the middle of the brief-

"Whenever you're ready, Eliot."

_Fuck_.

Nate's voice was even, heavenly patient, so casual that it even startled Florence – she raised her head to look at him.

"I'm thinking," he said lightly, keeping his head in the same direction, he just made his eyes distant. _What the hell had Nate asked_?

"Whatever he says, I still think they won't attack here anymore, they would expect police to be waiting. Of course Eliot will know more about thug behavior and expected reactions, but some things are logical."

_Thank you, Sophie_.

"Not likely," he continued on her cue, not daring to look at her, pissed because he was caught off guard, and even more pissed because she noticed it. "That's not my field anymore."

"Hello? Thugs, killers, attackers, expected reactions, behavior, MOs?" Hardison waved a hand to draw his attention. "Whose field it is, if not the hitter's?"

"The mastermind's," he smiled to Nate. "Their reactions are unpredictable now, because they are no longer the ones who decide their actions. Knudsen probably gave them an order in the beginning, and simply waited for the results, not interfering. I could tell you their steps pretty accurately, if that was still the case, but it isn't anymore. After the slaughterhouse fiasco, he'll take over again, he will actively engage. So, this isn't predicting thugs' actions, this is a standard reading the Mark."

"So, are they attacking us again or not?" Florence asked.

"In both cases, not today. The thugs would try to give us time to relax and then attack, and if Knudsen is taking over, he'll spend today organizing it. Tomorrow is another story."

"And the plan is…?" Hardison looked at Nate who was sitting on the table, listening to them.

"The plan? Ah, nothing," Nate smiled. "Two days of rest and recovery, and then we'll start proper recon. Plans will come, eventually, as we go along. However…" a quick smile, again, went over his face. "We have another case, remember? We have to revive M7 and get them back on the air. Season six won't air itself."

"As much as it hurts to say, I have to tell you to leave it," Florence shifted uncomfortably.

"Why?"

"Because it can't be done."

"Ah," that was Nate's only reply.

"No, seriously, Nate, it's over. Brewer will announce it on People's Voice Awards ceremony the next weekend – Jesus, I have an invitation, I'll have to go and look brave… They simply decided that my show wasn't good enough, didn't pay out, and they are replacing it with something that will bring them more money. You can't fight a logical business decision. You have no means to do it. Let it go."

"Would your show be canceled, if Winslow didn't ruin it in the first place, bringing it to attention of the Board of Directors? If it wasn't sabotaged, meticulously, through the entire fifth season, with every means he could use?"

"No."

The silence that followed her words was cut off by Hardison's quiet humming.

Eliot watched her – this time paying attention to everything – she slowly turned to look at Hardison first, then at all the rest of them, and their identical smiles. Even Parker managed a combination of a smile and frowning, something painful to even watch.

"What?" Florence growled. Fuck, she really _growled_.

"You see?" Sophie darted him a disapproving look. "You're a bad influence."

"Nah, she had it in her," he grinned, "It just waited to break through."

"Look," Florence sighed very patiently. "There's still a slight chance they'll change their minds, in TV business decisions are changed on a daily basis… why don't we lay low and see what will happen in the few days before the PVA? Nobody knows about the cancellation yet, thank God."

"Why is so important that nobody knows?" Nate asked.

"Because that would make it almost official then – it would hinder any chance of changing their mind, they can't do that after going public, and admit they made a mistake."

"Is that so?" Nate waved a hand to Hardison and the hacker grinned, typing a little faster. Eliot almost felt sorry for her.

"What are you doing?!" her voice rose uncontrollably.

"Florence, do you know what diplomacy is?" Nate asked her gently. "The art of keeping the enemy talking, until your archers are in range."

"What is he doing, Nate?!"

"You see," Nate continued with the same gentle, slow tone. "When you're engaging in battle, it's very important that you push your enemy into the defensive position. It's even better if you catch him unprepared, in mid step, off balance. That's what we are going to do. We will force C4 to _defend_ their decision – and they wouldn't be able to do so. They have no real reason for the cancellation, except greed – a thing no one clever would ever admit to their fans."

She squeaked. "Nate, if any word of cancellation goes public, it would be a disaster–" She squeaked again when Hardison put an official C4 page up on all the screens, with breaking news about the cancellation of The Magnificent Seven: The Next Generation.

She stared at it for a few seconds.

"Well, well, look at that," Hardison purred, pulling the comment section onto one screen – the numbers started to rise, one per second. "I'm afraid it's official now."

"You have no idea what you have done," she whispered.

"I do," Nate flashed a smile. "We were few – now, we are a legion. Our archers are coming into range."

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	23. Chapter 23

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Okay, this wasn't so bad. Eliot slowly exhaled his anxiety along with his fear. For the next few days they would be here, relatively safe, before they started the recon for Knudsen, and that would give him time to get it together. Hardison would do his geeky stuff with this Season Six Job, and the hacker would be occupied with that day and night. He could even hope for some silence along the way, Florence would be helping him.

They didn't need him for anything for now, and if their luck held, it would remain until the end.

When Nate and Sophie went shopping, he might even start on the almonds; though the kitchen was connected with the rest of the room, divided only by a counter with chairs, it gave off an aura of 'don't disturb' when he was in it, cooking. He calculated that he would be able to be busy in the kitchen for one hour before he needed to rest – much better than a few days before when he almost passed out during lunch, and needed to lie down twice while preparing the meal.

He stood up, putting Orion on Hardison. The hacker left his tablet on the table and just sat there with his eyes closed; it seemed that even those few buttons he pressed were making his headache worse. He sneezed instantly, muttered a curse, and clutched his head. Orion snuggled closer.

"Where the hell are you going?" Nate looked at him.

"I'll see what we have in the fridge, and make a list," he said taking his juice with him. "I'll make something to eat before you get back from shopping."

"Ah, I don't think you'll have time for that," Nate said. "Sit, we are not finished here."

"I don't need to participate in all the geeky things about ratings, YouTube and viewership – I'll listen from the kitchen."

Nate's smile grew wider. "Sit, please."

He sighed but sat down.

"If I recall correctly, and I do," Nate said slowly, "Florence said one time that her fans, those who are commenting on the news right now, are gathered in groups all over the web, on different social media. Twitter, Tumblr, LiveJournal, Facebook…"

"Look, I see your mouth moving, but I only hear 'blah blah' coming out. I have no idea what those Twimbly things are, so unless you have something for me to do, I'm out of here, okay?"

"Good you mentioned that – because I _have_ something for you to do."

"What?"

"Everything."

At that, even Florence stopped biting her nails. He stared at Nate, not liking his smile, not liking it at all, while terrible suspicion started to grow in his head.

"Nate…" he said just that, half question, half warning.

"Hardison will be here to help, but I want him to rest as much as he can, and what little time he can spend typing, to do his search for info on Knudsen. You agree that's more important, right? But I need someone who will handle this part with the fans."

His vocal cords were strangely wooden, he said nothing.

"It happens that you're the resident expert on Facebook, by happy chance," Nate went on, with the same smile. "Florence will show you all the Facebook groups that you need to pay attention to, so I suggest you focus on them."

He cleared his throat. "You want me to _type_?!" He summed up all that shit in one word, filling it with as much acid as he could spit. "Why can't Sophie and Parker do that?!"

"Because you're the only one, except Florence, that watched the majority of the episodes, and you're still watching it – and because I know that when I told you to watch it, you did it, thoroughly, knowing its importance. You can walk among them and play a rabid fan – the two of them can't. "

He stared at him in disbelief, noticing how cautious Hardison suddenly was; except for a grin, he was silent, just watching them both in turns.

"And what…" His voice betrayed him, he stopped for a moment just to breathe, deeply regretting the loss of the oxygen mask. "How am I supposed…? What the hell should I do with Facebook fans?"

"It's called grifting."

"Nope, I can't." He crossed his arms and glared at Nate. "I'm _insecure and scared_, remember? Won't do it."

"Eliot…"

"You don't understand… I made a fake account just for Betsy, I'm not _on _Facebook. I have no idea what people do there, the only thing I know how to do is to return a gift for Farmville! That's the only fucking interaction!"

"First thing, find the groups. Second, join them. Third, mingle, post, talk, read what they say, adapt. It's not any different than infiltrating an enemy base, for crying out loud, it's not nuclear physics!"

"I wouldn't have problems with nuclear physics, it's logical! Groups of screaming people… women… freak me out, there's nothing logical in crazy!"

"Hey!" Florence and Hardison spat at the same time. "Hold your tongue, man," Hardison glared. "Fandoms and communities are not _crazy_, they are just devoted. And loyal."

"Yeah, geek boy, there's nothing crazy about dressing up in plastic costumes and skirts, right? Playing out the scenes from movies and series… Grownups screaming and running around with plastic weapons? Nothing crazy, my ass." He turned to Nate again. "Florence can do it. She can make a fake account, and do all of that much faster – and you can't say she's not an expert among M7 fans. She… she is their fucking mother, she created 'em!"

"That's why she'll be helping you…." Nate hesitated, studying him. "But she can't do one thing, Eliot… We need a commander for the legion. We need them organized and directed in the direction we want them to go, to be a force that will help us, and not destroy our efforts. And you are the one who can do it."

Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable.

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"When do we start?" Florence asked when Hardison went to prepare Eliot's laptop, and Nate and Sophie started a private, quiet conversation.

"As soon as you list all the important groups, I'll make him a new account. It would be suspicious if he appears suddenly, so I'll make his account in groups look like it's a few months old. With over one thousand members, the admins will think he was just inactive, and he came back after the news of the cancellation. After that, you're on your own."

Eliot still sat stupefied.

Florence slowly got up. "No need to hurry. Nate, your upstairs bathroom…anybody need it?"

Nate just waved his hand, and she took one of her bags, passing by Parker and Orion engaged in a battle of wills over the red dot.

She tried to keep her steps slow as she climbed the stairs. She tried to smile at Sophie, who followed her with those dark, deep eyes from the moment she spoke. She _really_ tried not to look like she was running away to hide.

When the doors were locked, she sat on the floor, hugged her shins and moaned.

Crying would help her, but her eyes were dry.

Too much. Her teeth clattered. _Too much of everything_. First, she had been slammed into a wall, then she found out that the Mob wanted her dead, and finally, Nate had just ruined every chance for M7. There was only a limited number of shocks she could endure with a smile.

Surprisingly, she managed to keep calm after she almost died, yet she would never forget Eliot turning in less than a second and striking in the same move. One would think that Death was terrifying; no, Death had calm, emotionless eyes. It didn't matter that those eyes immediately filled with shock and fear, no, only that first moment was important. Death in action. It took all her control not to show him how frightened she really had been, how that outburst of violence shook her. Because it wasn't his fault. It really wasn't.

All of a sudden, all her clever plots, action scenes, fights and shootings felt so childish and false – she saw the real nature of violence. And it wasn't rage. It was efficacy. Cold, calm, practical. _That_ was terrifying.

He _did_ warn her. He tried to tell her she might face things she wouldn't be able to handle.

She meant everything she said to him, but it was one thing to babble, still in shock, about how great was to know, at last, what that looked like – what violence really looked like – and something completely different to let herself _feel_ it. And she continued with that, for him, because she saw the despair in his eyes. It _wasn't_ his fault.

Oh God, Sophie would know, Sophie could see through her, the grifter could feel how her words in the briefing were forced and empty, just a mask she put on her face to hide behind.

She jumped to her feet, washed her hair with quick movements, washed her face with cold water, and tried to glue a smile on her face again. It didn't work. She stared at a crooked, false grimace.

The rest of the briefing could justify her bad mood, she decided – there was no need to pretend she was well. She just had to hide what, exactly, bothered her. She drew in one shaky breath. All those dead in Estrella now became real, not just a note in the news, now that she saw a killer in his eyes. That one second, one long, cold, endless second when she stared into Death.

She put a towel on her head, straightened up, and opened the door.

And jumped back with a suppressed cry.

The android stood right there, a few inches from the door, motionless, her eyes covered by large black glasses; Florence was pretty sure that Parker hadn't moved during the entire time she was in there.

"Parker," she gasped. "You need the bathroom? You should call out, or knock, I would come out faster-"

"You aren't heading for Nate's window? You're not that type, and it's a two story fall."

"What?"

"You ran away." She tilted her head, two black mirrors hiding her eyes. "I know running away."

Right, Parker, of all people, could see that? As far as she knew until now, the girl was barely able to read basic emotions.

"If you don't want somebody to notice, don't clutch your bag at your ribs on the side of your dominate hand, and don't lower your eyes. Smaller steps, one third slower, and more flexibility in the knees is also useful. And _never_ smile. Try to look thoughtful, or bored."

Florence stared at her. Thoughtfully. "Can you"-she waved her hand at her face-"take them off?"

"Nope. Headache. Everything's too bright," Parker slowly reached with her hand, waited to see if she would flinch, and patted her on her upper arm, slowly, three times. Florence blinked at that; the thief did it carefully, with _concentration_.

"Thank you, Parker." She figured it was an encouragement, at the last moment. "I already feel better."

She said the right thing, Parker smiled. "Nate is scary. When he creeps you out, remember he never loses. You can worry or not, but in the end, it all ends well. It always does."

That reminded her of her talk with Eliot, about winning, how refusing to lose was the only way, and she clutched her bag. The dark glasses turned down to her hands, and she released her grip with a sigh.

"You are all scary," she darted a nervous smile.

"Hardison isn't."

No, he wasn't. She knew his type, she was surrounded by young, brilliant people. He wasn't dark and deadly. He wasn't… she shifted uncomfortably under the android's invisible gaze, reminding herself to be more cautious in front of her. Parker could read her too, just differently – it seemed they all were experts at noticing a different set of tells. Together, they were a terrifying bunch.

"He keeps us alive, and he won't let them get you."

"Hardison?"

"Duh." Somehow, she knew Parker rolled her eyes. "Eliot, silly. That's what he does."

Was the thief actually trying to explain to her what happened in the back room, or she was thinking that the mobster threat was troubling her the most? She wasn't sure.

"He growls, but he isn't biting," the thief continued. "He is domesticated, and on a leash. Only trespassers have to worry, not the people in the yard – and you are inside, now."

_That_ put a smile on her face.

"And what happens if the head of the house isn't near?" she asked. "Who's holding the leash?"

"Oh, Nate doesn't hold the leash, ever. Eliot does."

Parker smiled once more, and passed by her, heading for the stairs. She silently followed.

It wasn't the time to ask her what would happen if that leash ever snapped.

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Hardison's eyes – his eye – practically glowed when he brought him his laptop. The hacker had pulled out one more from who-knows-where; the damn room swarmed with laptops.

He knew from the beginning that something was strange about Nate's and Sophie's going to buy groceries, but now he got a pretty good idea why they felt that retreat would be a clever thing to do. Hardison was silent, with an almost angelic aura around him, and only that damn eye gloated in mocking, which he didn't even pretend to hide. And he was also becoming smarter - the hacker didn't say anything, and he couldn't react, couldn't explode at him.

"While you're busy with the… job… Parker and I will make something to eat," Hardison said gently.

_No you won't_.

"No, we won't," Parker said passing by the sofa. She had Nate's black glasses covering her eyes after she returned with Florence from upstairs – her hangover was obviously worse – and her steps were slow, without the usual bounce. "Wake me up when they return." She proceeded to the bed.

He opened the laptop. Then closed it, and closed his eyes.

Well, this was silence, if nothing else.

Hardison was at dining table with his job, and his typing was painfully slow. On the opposite side of Hardison and kitchen, he could hear the pitter-patter of Florence's feet; she was busy with her bags, piled under the two windows, along with the rest of the stuff. She was quiet and invisible, and she carefully avoided coming even near his sightlines. And they were supposed to work together on this shit; well, this would be a day to remember. Especially when the urge to curse was the only thing on his mind.

He should've been satisfied with her retreat; after all, her too normal behavior was troubling him. The danger of acting too relaxed with them – with him – accepting them as normal, was now pretty much solved. At least, now she knew what was lurking deep inside him. He wanted that, though he would've chosen any other way than that hit to show that to her.

He opened his eyes and looked at her; she was leaning over the bags and digging through the clothes she had in there. He had a perfect view of her ass and long legs, and he tried to look at her like he would look at any other fine looking woman, noticing all her attributes in one expert glance. His attempt ended when she straightened up, and only thing left in his mind was her _shoulders_. She was hunching again, slightly, a defensive mechanism he noticed before. Fuck, that wasn't good.

Liking her would be a disaster. Liking her as in _liking_ her. Especially now. He could, for a change, like her as a nice, lovable client, right? That would do no harm, and it could even help with the battle for the damn show. Not too emotionally engaged, but caring. Yep, that'd do.

He closed his eyes again, and started to think – and he needed an effort to do that – about this trap he fell into. Somehow he had a feeling it was a set up from the beginning.

Did Nate do this so he had something to work on and to occupy him in case he wasn't able to do the hitter's job? Or did he do this to push him into action, to show him what he would have to do unless he got himself together? Both versions were bad. And both, probably, were true.

Damn.

Well, if he wanted to function after the two day deadline, he should try to rest as much as he could – and that meant going back to bed. He picked up the laptop, brought the juice along, settled in the bed, half sitting up, and went to see what Hardison had done to his new Facebook page. As if one wasn't too much already.

He never checked his wall, he always went straight into the game, trying to spend the least amount time he could – and now his new wall was full of information, pictures, events. Hardison probably used an already-made fake ID, just as he did for Alice White. He traced posts all the way back to 2011. What a bunch of useless crap… he sighed and resisted making a comment, scrolling through all of it, remembering the most important facts, in case somebody asked something. At least the hacker had enough decency not to put any picture as his profile picture, leaving it up to him.

This was just recon for the job, he reminded himself, just like scouting or monitoring… only virtual. Right. He sighed again. That drew a low chuckle from the dining table, but when he glared at Hardison, he pretended to be busy with his own screen.

Just then he realized that there was no clear info about his sex – the name was neutral as well. His identity had many sport links, but also a bunch of motivational crap with roses and deep thoughts written on sunsets. Dear Lord.

He tried to concentrate on that, when Florence came, bringing her laptop along with a chair.

"Are you ready to start?" she asked lightly, sounding as she was looking forward to it – the best sign that showed she wasn't. Welcome to the club.

"No." That drew an almost earnest smile.

She placed the chair so they were both facing the screens over the sofa in front of them, so she could peek at his laptop.

"I'm sending you a list of the biggest, most important groups of M7 fans on Facebook – the first on the list is our main target." She typed quickly.

"What should I expect?" he asked her, noticing how she avoided looking at him. He expected some postponed reaction after everything that happened today, and he made a mental note to keep an eye on her, and maybe, if necessary, nudge Sophie to talk to her.

"Look, they are fans. They love everything connected with the show. They post pictures, they make banners, fanvids, they write fanfiction, they vote in polls – nobody expects you to do any of that, of course, but you'll be there, commenting on their pictures, asking how their pets are doing, talking with them… as one of them. Do you want to be guy, or… a woman?

"What?"

"Be a guy, not all of them are women – there is a significant number of viewers who like the show not because of the seven guys, but because it's entertaining. That will give you a dose of authority. What picture do you want to use? We can't put your face there, right? Don't use one of the seven, it will draw only admirers of that particular one – a recurring character that everybody loves is always a good choice."

He sighed. "You're babbling again."

"And you're sulking. We are, at least, consistent, right?" she smiled and pointed a finger at one picture. _That unhappy smile again_. "Here, use this one. Just last year we managed to get him on the show, and we're no longer known as 'the only geek show that doesn't have Mark Sheppard as a bad guy'."

He eyed the guy, disliking him immediately. "He's half bald already."

She looked at him the way Hardison used to glare when he commented on his geekness – he called it geeky frown number nine: unable to sort out all thirty-seven sentences that ran at the same time and vocalize them as just one.

"He is…" she stopped. Yep, he was right. Thirty-seven at least. "Just put this picture, okay? And don't pay any attention if the Supernatural Horde tries to lure you onto their side, just be polite. We've been fighting with them for years now, we are always in the finales of all the voting polls and the battles we fought are epic."

He exhaled and ran both hands through his hair. Information overload. And not just that – that was information he didn't want to know, ever. Like, _ever_.

"Two guys with demons and vampires? What do they have to do with your show?"

"Rivalry. Their fan base is huge, millions, literally, but we are…I mean, my fans, they are persistent. They vote for hours, days, weeks, they are simply not stopping."

"And why would they try to lure me to their side?"

"Because of Mark Sheppard," she said.

He watched her. She blinked once.

"You don't know…He's Crowley…" she swallowed all thirty-seven sentences and smiled. "Hardison?" she turned to the hacker for help.

Hardison was staring at them, elbows on the table, not trying to hide how much he enjoyed this.

"Now you see what I've been living with for years," he said. "He still thinks that Vulcans are in Star Wars, you know?"

"How's your headache?" he asked, politely. "Aren't you supposed to have problems focusing?"

"Surprisingly, distant objects are not double, I can see you without crossing my eyes… the near ones, however, are troubling."

"Focus on Knudsen," he growled and looked at the screen again. "If Supernatural fans are the Horde, what's our name?"

"The Cavalry. In fact, they are not exactly a Horde… that's the name we gave them to mock them. They call themselves Family, and they are a warm, nice fandom. I like them a lot."

He sighed. "Warm and nice fandom, I get it."

He opened the group she'd stated was the most important and looked at all the posts, each with dozens of comments. He didn't sigh this time, Hardison would chuckle again.

"So, that's it," Florence said. "Start reading, and slowly, comment, post, mingle. I'll be here if you need any help. I'll work on my blog, and create a few more IDs. I'll take Twitter for now, and monitor reactions."

He just nodded.

He glanced at the huge banner. All seven guys were shirtless.

Dear Lord.

Well, there was no use in hesitating, and the sooner he started, the sooner it would be finished. He murmured a curse, shook his head once, still not believing he was doing this, and typed:

'_Hi there. I wasn't posting much since I joined, but now I have to; this cancellation crap is awful. Any new info?'_

There. Not so hard, he told himself. He still had no idea what to do, but he would figure that out, with time. He had to see what kind of people were in the group, for starters, and read their- a soft ping, a notification jumped up. They were quick in commenting.

'_Hi :D Good to have you and welcome back - we are in desperate need of more voters – here's the links for important polls. The PVA is covered for now, can you vote on the others? 3 Supernatural and Castle are pressing hard, their numbers are rising quickly._'

Florence peeked to look at their reply.

"The Admin. Boss Lady is in charge, do everything she told you. Go vote. Or, say you're going to vote – be helpful."

"Yes, Ma'am," he sighed. That got him one almost not unhappy smile in return. Then he typed: '_Yes Ma'am, I can vote_.'

It took only two seconds, and one stupid 'heard' came as a reply. Yet, judging by the response of the chief – and he knew fast responses in the middle of a battle, and their importance – they were fighting hard, and they were outnumbered.

He didn't expect fighting for them to be his first step, and that, slightly, lessened the awful feeling of all this Facebook crap being completely useless. He could fight. It didn't matter that it would be fighting by voting and with a mouse – the feeling was important.

That Supernatural and Castle were going to get their asses kicked.

He smiled.

Under the seven guys, huge letters said: Magnificent Seven: Vote & Promote Group.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

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Voting wasn't as dull as Eliot thought it might've been, mostly because they had one giant thread in which they could post about voting, problems, and offer some sort of encouragement to those who'd had enough of it. For those like him, for example – he had enough after the first three clicks, when he realized that _that_ was it. Open the page. Click M7. Close the page. Repeat.

He set a goal of one hundred votes. Before he reached it, he felt his mind withering, and his eyes glazing. Just one more hour of those stuporous, repetitive moves and he would become a slobbering idiot.

Florence typed quickly beside him, and he used every loading of the page to glance at her screen; she was writing something on her blog. _Wing Chun Chicken_, said dark green letters. In the pauses while she thought, she went to some bluish page with a bird, sending short messages from many different accounts, often replying to herself.

He couldn't even sigh in peace, Hardison still chuckled every time he heard him.

He knew he had to stop when he started to envy Nate on the shopping trip.

"How's that going?" Florence asked right when he rubbed his tired eyes.

"Voting and talking," he said, un-gritting his teeth with effort. "I read all the comments on the voting thread, and I'm starting to recognize names and their faces – or what goes as a face in this crazy place. I'm asking questions, so they're all around me, very helpful, giving advice to a novice. For example, this -" He glanced to a thread where a few new comments appeared, and he blinked, astounded. "What the hell… why's this woman sending me a _gun!_? Is that some sort of tradition, or custom, or am I unwanted?"

"What gun?" Florence read the comment and looked at him as if he had two heads.

"I have to see this," Hardison was already coming, so he used that chance to sigh, quickly.

"I don't see any gun," Florence eyed him almost worriedly, and he carefully selected that part of the comment. She choked, and quickly withdrew to her screen. Hardison bowed to the screen.

"H&K?" the hacker stuttered. "Seriously? You think it's a _gun_?"

"It's Heckler & Koch," he explained. Florence produced one intelligible sound.

"It's hugs & kisses, you, you…" Hardison turned around, going back to the dining table, muttering low. "Not even one hour has passed, and hugs & kisses already? Really?"

"I'm nice," he growled after him. "It's not my fault you probably had to wait three months for that."

He returned to voting, bored to the bone.

The next crisis, after another fifty votes, was so strong that he thought about sneaking over to Parker and poking her to wake her up. That told him that he had to concentrate, quickly.

He checked other M7 groups, mainly about the seven actors, and noticed that the majority of the names from the Vote& Promote group were in those, too. They were all voting, just in different polls, and all their strength was scattered. It was worse than running to and fro over the battlefield, shooting one bullet on the left, and then another on the right.

When he – very carefully – asked about it in the thread, he got nine different explanations at the same time, all contradicting.

Interesting.

"You're staring at the screen and you're not voting," Florence said after a few minutes. "Is something wrong?"

"They're not organized," he said quietly. "There's just a few of them who monitor the enemy voters-"

"Opponent voters," Florence corrected him rather coldly. "They aren't enemies."

"Okay, okay, our friends from the other side, who are, by the way, beating the crap out of us right now, in a vigorously friendly manner… where I was? Ah, yes, monitoring the… other voters. There are ups and downs in their votes, as if they come in clusters to vote – every time we gain a little advantage, here comes a mass."

"They are very connected on Twitter. We send calls for help too, but we are not as many."

"Not only that. Your people vote in the main poll for the Best Series, but they also vote in polls for Best Actor… and they have seven of them. They are doing a barrage fire, instead of a frontal attack, and their strength is being wasted, they're not advancing in any poll."

"You know, even if we win in all the polls, it means nothing," she said quietly, and a weight seemed to settle on her shoulders again, rounding and hunching them.

"They know that," he nodded to his screen, but he said it with a small smile that he hoped was encouraging. "They also say it would be an important message to C4. They canceled a show that won – might win - the Best Series and the Best Actor category."

"Internet polls are not influential, only winning the PVA would make, maybe, a difference."

"So we only have to win that one, too."

She averted her eyes and said nothing.

"What did I say?"

"The People's Voice Award is the biggest annual award, especially for network and cable," she murmured. "In our category, we are against the Walking Dead, Burn Notice, Pretty Little Liars and White Collar. It's hopeless."

"We won an election for a foreign country. A small one."

"Eliot, the Walking Dead has more voters than Africa has people. It _is_ a hopeless task."

He smiled again. "A hopeless task or an impossible task?"

"What's the difference?"

"There's none. Both don't exist."

"Okay," she smiled, finally. "I know what you want to say, it's all in the head, right? But, both the TV and movie business has their own set of laws, predictions, analysis."

"Perfect."

"Why?"

"Because you forgot who we are. We break the law for a living."

_That_ put a real smile on her face. "Just when I managed to put that thought deep, deep in my mind," she said. She looked as if she wanted to add something, but her laptop made a quiet 'ping'. "A message," she murmured again and went back to her typing.

He opened the page. Voted. Closed it. Repeated.

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Sophie knew that Nate volunteering to shop for Eliot would end in nagging; he obviously thought that buying shirts was something you do in five minutes. The last twenty minutes he was silent, and he just followed her around, carrying the bags, looking more and more lost.

"This one," she showed him a pale green one, and he pursed his lips. "What?"

"It's silk. It looks like Florence's blouse. It's even a similar color. You won't make him wear that, ever."

"It's classy."

"He needs _shirts_, so he can change while he is in the apartment, he doesn't need an entire wardrobe. Besides, if he wears it – and he might even try it, just to please you, so don't put him in that position – what if Florence decides to wear her green blouse the same day? This one looks like something that ABBA would wear onstage, it needs only glitter."

For a second she thought about engaging in an argument over silk-cotton-colors-glitter, but it was a lost cause. Yet, it reminded her of something else, so she just put the chosen shirt into the bag and smiled. "I'm glad Florence will work with Eliot. He smiles more when she's near," she said lightly.

"Is that so?" He eyed the next shirt she took and grimaced. "Pink? Sophie…"

"Don't be old fashioned. Pink is the new orange. Besides, it will add a little color to his face. I bought gray ones, one black, olive, and a pretty one, white with little blue flowers- what?"

"Nothing," he sighed, peering into the bags, pretending he wasn't counting them. "Florence is doing much better than I thought. Except he scares her. We all do."

"I wouldn't call it 'scaring'," she said carefully, and he raised his head to look at her face.

"What do you mean? He's not flirting."

"Exactly. He's not flirting."

No response.

"Nate," she sighed. "He is _not_ flirting."

He looked at her. "I just said that."

She bit out another frustrated sigh and smiled. "For someone who's supposed to be a genius, you're completely dumb when it comes to relationships and feelings, aren't you? That was a rhetorical question, you don't have to answer it…I'm just repeating the common truth."

"So, you think his not-flirting is something that we should consider? Why? You have to be in the mood to flirt, and he isn't – don't you think he has enough shirts already? Why red? Who the hell wears _red_?"

"For some people, it's a natural, instinctive reaction. For him, precisely." She waited, putting the red shirt with the others. He tilted his head, looking at her with interest. He really had no clue.

"For him, running around and fighting is natural, too, but he can't do that now," he said. "I don't see why flirting would be any differ- besides, why is that so important?"

"How come you can read every mark, but you're unable to understand basic-" she stopped, took a deep breath, and continued. "Okay, let's put it this way. You have a mark, and you know his natural reactions. He suddenly stops one of his usual behaviors. A natural one, instinctive, that's not influenced by his wealth or state. What would you think about it? Just shrug and continue, or notice it?"

"Okay, consider it noticed," he grinned casually, but she noticed a switch in his mind when his eyes narrowed. "What now?"

"Nothing," she shook her head with a huff of laughter. "Bring those shirts, I'm going to find those awful trousers with so many pockets that he wears… you're sure he wouldn't rather-"

"Completely, absolutely sure. Without any doubt."

Men.

"Wait just a second." Nate took his phone and dialed, shaking his head when she reached for another shirt. "Good day. I'd like to confirm an appointment with Mr. Knudsen. Inspector Olivia Lohman is on her way and… ah, he's expecting her? Good, excellent. I had to check, the Inspector doesn't like canceled meet- right, of course. No problem. Good day to you, too."

"Are you trying to hurry me?" she smiled when he ended the call.

"I wouldn't dare, dear." He glanced at his watch. "We have only forty more minutes to find two or three pairs of pants."

"Forty minutes! That's not enough even to look at all the-"

"I know," he said solemnly. "Tragic, isn't it?"

She frowned, turned on her heel, and hurried.

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Uh–oh. It was good to receive messages, that meant they were open and friendly people who liked to communicate – and when did _that_ become something good? – but when he read the message, he had to rub his temples with both hands, to shake off the headache.

Damn.

He cleared his throat. "Hardison, do we know how to make a banner for promotion?" he asked carefully.

"Do _we_ know?" the hacker repeated. "You mean, Hardison, make me a banner so I can brag about it in the group and – Florence, take a look, and tell me how the one that asked him that looks?"

It was too late to scroll down, Florence quickly eyed the picture. "Pretty, redhead, young."

"Figures."

"She's one of the admins of the page," he growled. "You said to be helpful, so I am."

"Sure, _we_ do know how to make banners." Hardison's quick reply was even more worrying than his grinning. _Everything about this shit was worrying_. "Do you want roses, or ribbons around it, or little hearts that would surround-"

There was no point in glaring when Hardison was barely able to see him, but it _felt_ good. "Something simple. Dark background." He was sure he said it calmly, but Florence flinched. Not only was he forced to do this, he also wasn't allowed to be pissed off because of it… the next thing, he would have to look like he was enjoying it.

"No problem, one simple banner coming your way. By the way, you can't see him because of the sofa, but Orion is crawling behind it in a very suspicious manner."

Florence jumped up immediately; he kept George near the chairs and sofa after the cat's attack on the table, but it seemed that the temptation was too big for him. Florence quickly brought George back to the table. Orion sprinted up and down the room three times, and stopped on sofa's backrest, with his ears low and tail switching. Eliot watched him, fascinated, expecting hissing or something even worse, but he suddenly jumped down with a low, gentle murmur, ran over to Florence and snuggled.

She cooed over him, but he wasn't deceived by that – the monster was now only one meter away from the table and George, and they had no excuse to chase him away.

He darted him a 'I know what you're doing' stare, and started to vote again, not paying attention to the purring and pure innocence on his left.

Another fifty votes.

His hand started to feel strange. He restrained himself from asking Hardison how long it took to get that carpal syndrome, the reply would be impossible to survive.

Click, click, click.

People did this for hours? For a living? He masked a sigh with quiet coughing.

A low chuckle, nevertheless.

He posted one excited _Yay! 3_ when they managed to pass Castle. It lasted only four minutes, mainly because all the voters stopped voting and came to the thread to say, 'yay'.

He hated his life.

He waited until Castle's voters lost their advantage – probably going to their threads to say 'Yay', too – but just when he thought they might take the lead again, the Supernatural voters jumped in all at the same time, and raised their numbers.

Slamming the laptop into the screens would scare Florence, he reminded himself. Before he could think of some other way to express all the futility of this, Florence's phone rang, startling her. Orion jumped away and disappeared. _Good_.

"Nate?" she asked, as if surprised that Nate had her number, and listened, glancing twice at her laptop.

"Yes, I can, sure. Aghast, outraged reactions? No problem."

She ended the call and looked at him. "Nate wants me to write a couple of short articles that will show how the news about cancellation is being taken. The emphasis is on the consternation. Later Hardison will put them on the websites of all the important newspapers." She glanced at the hacker who was poking at his laptop with one finger, moved over one meter away from him. "He can do that?" she asked quietly. "Hack into the New York Times and just plant an article? Without anyone noticing it? With one eye and one finger?"

"They'll notice after a while, and remove it. Then he'll repeat the process."

"Meanwhile, hundreds of thousands of people will read it," she said quietly, as if for herself.

"Yep." _Dear Lord, he almost said 'Yay'_. "He'll do that with all the important newspapers that have a large readership, and keep the articles up for days, until you write the new ones. It'll start an avalanche, and the smaller houses will follow the trend and write their own articles to match ours. If our luck holds, they will all be in the same tone. If not, he'll monitor every mention of M7 and remove the negative ones."

"That sounds simple when you say it."

"It is simple… for him."

It was interesting to monitor the rising and falling of hope on her face – she clearly liked this new step. He could tell she believed it could work, by the speed she typed, producing articles faster than he could write one comment in a thread.

It wasn't polite to constantly peek at her screen, but he couldn't help it, he was fascinated by the change in her writing style. It was as if five different people wrote them, not just one. He was sure not even a thorough analysis could tell it was the same author. For the last few days, he had been trying to figure out how her brain worked while watching the episodes she wrote entirely herself, without co-writers, and he failed. _For now_.

"Do you two need anything?" Hardison asked, getting up, and he quickly continued his clicking, just waving his offer off.

"No, thank you," Florence said politely. "Maybe later."

"Your loss," the hacker said throwing his empty soda bottle into trash in the kitchen. He started to open and close cupboards, murmuring something about his frogs, and Eliot darted an irate look at him; noise could wake Parker up.

"Uhm." Hardison said only that, standing frozen, holding the fridge door open.

"You okay?" he eyed him; he didn't look like he was dizzy, more like deep in thought.

"The fridge is completely full. So is the freezer."

"And?"

"And why did they say twice, at least, that they are going to buy _groceries_ after the briefing?"

"To have an excuse to leave apartment and all this mess, and spend a few hours alone, in silence, without us?" Just as he said that, he realized Florence flinched again. There was no point adding to her guilt, so he continued without pause. "And Sophie mentioned buying clothes for me, she told me…" he trailed off for a moment. "Yep, shopping was mentioned more than twice. Sounds like being groundwork laid. For what?"

Hardison quickly returned to his laptop. "Their earbuds are not on, so that must mean they're not doing anything," he said hopefully. "They wouldn't leave us here and go do something…" now it was his turn to pause, thinking. "Oh, yes they would. They surely would. The three of us ain't able to do anything, so they went to do something without us, without telling us. They made it look like shopping so we wouldn't-"

"Stop. Stop right now. Why's everybody lately more paranoid than me?"

"'Cause you're still half dead so your paranoia is muted as well?"

Florence knocked on the table and both of them looked at her. "And what would they do?" she asked. "There's nothing. They can't do anything with C4 now, and certainly can't do anything with Knudsen and the mobsters. Nate said that the recon will start when all of you get better."

Eliot pushed the laptop away, not liking sudden unease. He remembered thinking that was something strange about that damn shopping, but there could be hundreds of explanations. "Can you track their phones, Hardison? Just in case."

"Already on it. Sophie's turned off, and Nate's on. They took Lucille, but I don't have any tracking devices in her, I've cleaned it completely when we brought all the bags from-"

Fuck. Nate had gone to the bags twice, while they waited for the briefing to start. He quickly stood up - too quickly - waited until the sudden dizziness passed, and went to check them.

"Hardison, come here. Nate was plundering this bag, see what's missing. They took something from it, and you may be right. They _are_ doing something."

It took only one look for Hardison to start cursing. "This one was full of IDs, bugs, cameras and tracking devices."

He said nothing, just stared into the bag for a few seconds. "Wake up Parker," he said and turned around, going back to the bed to fetch his phone. When Nate answered he put him on speakerphone. "Where the hell are you?" he tried to speak normally, but he was too pissed off. "And don't start with shopping, groceries, clothes, we know you're doing something."

"Are you pissed because we're doing something, or because we left you out of it?" came the calm reply; he could feel the bastard smirking.

"Nate, this is stupid, you're going without backup," Hardison jumped in. "Come back and wait, we're not in a hurry."

"What are you doing?" Eliot didn't wait for Nate's reply, he knew what he would say. "If you're going to the mobsters, I swear I will-"

"Look, we'll be back in a couple of hours, so just stay there and relax, we're not doing anything dangerous," Nate replied still calmly, but that smile was clear, too.

"We _could_ go with you, you should've told us-"

"Ah, you _could_ help us, right?" That sounded just a bit strange, as if his smile widened. "There is no need to go alone when you have a team to back you up, is that what you're saying, Eliot? 'Cause going alone to do things is all of a sudden stupid, right? And leaving the team behind, clueless, is also stupid, when you're on the receiving end? The poor team will now have to guess what the hell we're up to, where we are, the team will have to track us all over town, trying to guess our steps, unable to be close and help us. An awful, awful feeling, isn't it?" Sophie's chuckle in the background added to the sting. "Relax," Nate continued seriously. "There'll be enough reasons to get pissed off when you see the classy shirts that Sophie bought. Stay there, all of you, and I'll call you when we finish, okay?" He ended the call before any of them could say anything.

"He turned the phone off, no tracking," Hardison checked his laptop. "But we can be sure they're going back to sand excavation camp."

The camp full of mobsters.

"They won't do anything risky," Hardison said carefully. "They'll probably just monitor it for awhile, see the best way to get in, that sort of thing. But, that place is too isolated from everything. They'll have to leave Lucille far away and go closer by foot, and if they're discovered, a lot of shit can go wrong in the middle of nothing."

"You're starting to make sense," Eliot murmured, still thinking. "And that's a frightening experience. Florence, will you, please, go and find me something to wear from Nate's closets upstairs? Hardison, you have the Challenger's keys?"

"Can I drive?" Parker's sleepy voice startled them both.

"No," they replied at the same time.

"But he said we must stay here," Florence turned around halfway to the stairs. "Was that an order?"

"I see it as a suggestion," Hardison grinned. "We'll go there just to be close, if needed, monitor the situation, and return here before them – they won't even notice we were there. In and out, unnoticed."

"Well, that can't go wrong, right?" Florence sighed and continued upstairs.

Sitting here and doing nothing was out of the question, and none of them were that bad that they couldn't endure the drive. What they would be able to do when they get there – if needed – was another question. He glanced at Parker who was stretching before getting up, trying to make her leg function before the first step, and Hardison who went to turn off two laptops, and who almost stumbled on the stair he missed though he was looking right at it.

He hesitated, watching them, but when he opened his mouth to speak, Hardison raised his hand.

"Don't even think about saying it. Seriously, man, _don't_. Not the time, or the place for that shit. We are _all_ going."

So he said nothing. Hardison was right. _Again_. This day was disastrous.

"You should let me drive," Parker said quietly. "We'll be too late; it's more than an hour drive, and we don't know if they're already there."

"Don't worry, mama," Hardison's grin broadened. "I have an idea."

Yep, Florence was right… this _couldn't_ go wrong, definitely.

He sighed, and tried to concentrate on his breathing.

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	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

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Florence was ready to go in a less than a minute – much faster than Eliot and Hardison.

"Since when do we have a rotating light bar?" Eliot asked when a beaming Hardison pulled the light from one bag.

"Since we needed it during a certain night, and didn't have it." The hacker examined the strength of the magnet on the bottom. "With this, we can be there in a half an hour. No speed limit, baby. Let's go!"

They couldn't leave her alone in the apartment, and they needed someone to drive; she was okay with that. She wasn't afraid, just a little hurried as all of them were – though their going to the car didn't look like a rescue party; they sneaked down as if they knew they were doing something they shouldn't. Hardison and Parker both had black glasses now, and she was sure Hardison used them to permanently keep one eye closed, judging by his careful steps down the stairs.

They were on the street and in front of an orange Dodge, when she realized that Eliot had the keys, not she.

He stopped at the driver's door and Florence almost bumped into him; she quickly changed course and went around the car. Hardison was lingering in the back, walking slowly so Parker's painful steps wouldn't be so obvious.

"I think I'm the only one here who is actually able to drive," she said quietly.

No response came.

Eliot looked at the car with a strange hesitation, and for a moment she thought he was thinking about letting her drive. Just one moment, though – the next one he opened the door and sat.

She used the opportunity and took the passenger seat.

The fifteen seconds they spent waiting for Parker and Hardison seemed to last much longer; he was sitting stiff as a board, staring out the front with both hands on the wheel, not just holding it, clutching it.

His right hand, when he finally turned the engine on, trembled so hard that he missed the key hole twice. She bit her lip and stopped any comment.

Parker carefully crawled onto the back seat, Hardison put the light bar on the roof and they were set to go, but she was suddenly completely sure she didn't want to be driven by a man who was only allowed to be out of bed one hour a day.

It seemed that Hardison thought the same.

"Seriously, man? Why don't you let Florence drive? It's insane, Betsy would freak out and you know it-"

"Just get in already!"

Florence squinted when they started, when the engine roared in the silent street.

"Slower!" both Hardison and Parker hissed from the back seat. "You won't make much time through town," Hardison continued. "And you definitely don't want to make us sick, right? More than we already are."

That threat worked, Florence noticed. She carefully kept her eyes on the street, but she studied Eliot's moves. He was driving with his left hand on the wheel, the right was down on the gearshift; he moved it only when necessary. This was almost like sitting with a laptop, she tried to calm herself down, glancing at his profile. He seemed concentrated and that was good. But he also seemed to be half absent, and she didn't know what to think about it.

Hardison obviously noticed it too. "You okay, man?" he asked softly, deep concern clear in his voice. Too clear. He continued, quickly making his voice mocking. "You won't faint on us while you're driving, will you?"

Five seconds passed before Eliot replied. "I drove a car only three days after that bullet, while bleeding out and dying, on a triple morphine overdose, and I drove the whole night. I _think_ I'll manage not to faint now, Hardison." He missed fifth gear and went into third, the car thundering for a second.

Oh. No wonder he was so stiff. Who drugged him? Damn, there was so many questions she wanted to ask him, but she remembered Nate's warning. No questions about That Night. She started to understand why, watching his face being set into a sharp mask. He wasn't even that concentrated when he lipread the words of the Red guards from the recording, from a blurry gray feed.

The thing she didn't know, however, was troubling… was he concentrating on driving, or was his mind set on something else, and they'd all end up squashed into a wall? There was only one way to check that, and she mentally pushed aside all the warnings. "Who drugged you?" she asked directly.

"Not now, Florence." His voice was a low rasp.

"When?" she asked quickly, watching the Challenger speeding through the traffic, and the way his eyes tracked everything in front of him, not even once glancing to the passenger seat, to her.

The pause before the answer was even longer this time. "Some better time."

"I was wondering, can we buy a shotgun now that we're already on the road?" Parker's uninterested voice came from behind. "We can go to Francisco, I bought the hand grenades from him."

The car swerved slightly to the left, but Eliot managed to set it straight in a second. "No, Parker, we can't buy- what hand grenades?!" His voice lost that absent tone, and annoyance crept into it. "Who the hell is Franc-"

"You're the same as Nate – he kept making me leave them every time we went to do something."

"You give me the full name of that guy, and where to find him – he sold hand grenades to a girl? Seriously?"

"I acted cute."

"Even better."

"Or, instead of a shotgun, we can buy a bazooka," Parker continued. Her voice was lower, but felt nearer, and Florence turned in her seat, finding her face mere inches from hers. Parker looked directly at her, but her eyes were hidden behind the glasses.

Florence stopped herself from shifting; she could feel the papers in her back pocket. The thief couldn't take them, read her notes about a bad guy based on Eliot, for whom she needed a bazooka to kill, and return the papers to her pocket without her noticing it. Then she remembered her earrings. Yes, she could do that.

"I've changed my mind," she said to the thief, grinning. "First poison, preferably curare, and _then_ a bazooka. Twice."

Parker giggled and drew back, not paying attention to Hardison's questions about the bazooka, nor to Eliot's growling about the hand grenades.

Florence watched her for a second and darted her a smile – it seemed that the android knew how to return him to the present, without him noticing the intention. Maybe they'd all survive this ride, after all.

Yet, she wondered how innocent her question was, really, and what the thief would have done if she gave her the wrong answer. She _was_ strange.

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"You're aware of the shit storm that awaits us when we get back?" Sophie asked when Nate stopped Lucille one block from the dark green building of Dvorak Security Inc. If it wasn't for the color, it would look very much like the C4 building – long, simple, and very… secure.

"They'll sulk, and then get over it," he said watching her transforming into Olivia Lohman, Inspector from the Department of Natural Resources. It was an old alias Hardison made for a small case, but they never used it. It would hold water until they got home and Hardison covered it up with more accurate data, if needed. Unfortunately, that was the only one they had for DNR, so she had to go alone.

She wore a dark suit with a white silk blouse, and her hair was falling free on her shoulders. It took only three things to transform her from beautiful, confident businesswoman to clumsy book worm – buttoning the blouse tightly to her neck, squinting behind her glasses, and holding her briefcase against her chest with both hands.

"Two of his thugs may recognize you – the one that held you in the corridor is maybe out of commission, though Hardison thinks his exploding jacket wouldn't have done much harm," he said when she checked the bugs in the briefcase and her pocket. They didn't have earbuds, but Hardison's surveillance system in Lucille was set on default, it recognized transmission without him needing to do anything more complicated than to turn it on and set it to search. He would be able to hear everything she said. "In any case, if you see any of them, abort everything."

She took a few pieces of white fur off her suit, similar to those on his dark shirt, and put on her glasses. "I can only _remind_ them of a woman they held in the corridor," she corrected him softly, putting a nasal tone in her voice; an irritating sound, like a permanent whine. "And before you continue, I know – don't be a threat, lull him in false security, and just introduce myself, as the first step."

He just nodded. They might be blind, but they weren't deaf, and this was just recon.

Nothing to worry about.

And certainly, not the time to ask himself how clever it was to go into a mobster's liar without a hitter.

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They needed thirty minutes instead of fifty-five – with the rotating light the Challenger sliced through traffic like a blade. Hardison said he was keeping an eye on police channels, just in case, but they didn't need to slow down even once.

Eliot slowed down only when they turned onto the small road that lead through the forest surrounding the sand excavation camp and the slaughterhouse – he noticed his reactions were much slower with every minute and the narrow road needed more concentration.

He shouldn't feel so damn tired after just one drive. But he did.

He kept moving his right hand to a minimum, yet he could feel familiar pain through his shoulder and chest. Not as much as after the slaughterhouse fight; after that he was in agony, though he never used his right hand completely outstretched, he mainly used the left one.

He should've let Florence drive, but he had to know if he would be able to do it. The results weren't that bad. He did feel as if he ran a marathon while loaded down with a cement bag, and walking would be interesting after this – but his breathing was okay. Faster and shallower than usual, but okay. For now.

The first sign that something unusual was happening was the smell of barbeque that came through the forest. It wasn't a weekend, and clouds were threatening rain again; who would camp here?

"We'll have problems with parking space," muttered Hardison, staring at the many cars that appeared on both sides of the road.

He slowed the Challenger to avoid people walking to and fro, on the same road they had waited for Lucille to pick them up, without traffic and half abandoned.

"We're on the right road," he said, watching five tents rising on the junction. "The camp entrance is at the end of the road to the right, only two hundred meters deeper into the forest."

"At least we can avoid sneaking around in the mud," Hardison said glancing around. "We'll mingle in the crowd – this is even better than silent monitoring."

Eliot eyed the crowd, looking for familiar faces, but no Goons were among them. A man standing behind the huge barbeque cheerfully waved to newcomers.

"Okay, get out," he said waving back and smiling. "Try to find those two idiots, but don't let them see you. I'll make a circle around the entire complex and try to find Lucille. They had to park somewhere."

They jumped out suspiciously eager, even Hardison. Parker seemed to be more interested in something colorful in front of one tent, than avoiding trouble.

He spent five minutes, searching every forest path he saw, but Lucille wasn't anywhere to be seen.

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Robert Knudsen had a beautiful smile.

And the only reason he had to smile so beautifully at a spinster in inspection, was charming her to get her off his back.

Don Lazzara's smile, though, wasn't that beautiful, but it was warm and genuine.

Sophie held her briefcase tighter and returned the smile to both men sitting in a huge, bright office, trying not to think about Nate's reaction when he realized who was visiting his nephew.

"This is my first inspection," she blurted. "I was just recently transferred from a different department, where I had no contact with… clients. Mr. Knudsen…?"

"That'd be me," Knudsen jumped on his feet and offered her a chair; for the moment she thought he would kiss her hand. "How can we help you, dear Inspector Lohman?" She sat, watching him hovering over her; young, handsome, in a suit that cost as much an entire month of a DNR inspector's pay – and aware of it.

Don Lazzara radiated warmth.

She put the briefcase on her knees, making her feet slightly crooked, as if not used to high heels. "This is an annual inspection," her voice kept the whining tone, but she made it official and stern, like she was reciting a well-learned speech. "I have to see your permits. We are particularly worried about monitoring the air and water pollution around your sand excavation camp; further steps ought to be taken in evaluating that to fulfill the new standards."

"Anything you need. When you announced your arrival, I copied all the relevant documents. My other business is security – and I pay just as much attention to the security and well being of citizens around my camp." When he eyed her from head to the toe and darted a smile, she blushed and lowered her eyes with a sheepish smile.

"You're _so_ kind," she said. "We at DNR very rarely find someone who's really concerned about the environment. If we – after I study your papers – find a reason to visit your camp, I'll be there in person, to see that the inspection is correctly performed." At this, she looked him straight in those unnaturally bright eyes, but briefly, as if surprised by her own bravery.

It was strange to talk with the mark without other voices in her head, and the sudden feeling of loneliness and danger added a natural tone to her unease.

"I'll be delighted to show you around, I have nothing to hide. On the contrary. I recently talked with your superiors at DNR, and I'm preparing one more donation. I bet you don't know any other owner of a Frac sand mine that donates Air Pollution Monitors to his worst enemy," his smile widened, but the only thing she saw was Nate's face, and how he stopped his – almost certain – nervous pacing up and down Lucille, and how his eyes narrowed like every time he heard something crucial. Her smile was colored with that image, and she quickly straightened herself up.

Don Lazzara didn't say a word. He slowly leaned forward, widening his smile, and very gently removed a white hair that lingered on her sleeve. His round, jolly face creeped her out, but she returned his smile with a shy one. She was nothing more than a sheep to those wolves, and they had to stay in that conviction.

He just listened, and his eyes, half hidden under heavy eyelids and gray bushes of eyebrows, were steady on her.

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One woman with two small kids drove away, leaving an empty spot near the place where he let the others out, and Eliot parked the car under the trees. The jacket he wore – Nate's - came handy when he felt rushes of a cold wind that announced another storm. It seemed that rain was inevitable when this camp and slaughterhouse were in sight.

Hardison and Parker were talking with a man holding a huge banner. Florence was near them, hiding in the crowd, keeping her back to the TV reporter who walked among the people, asking questions. Her face was buried in huge pink cotton candy. That was exactly what they needed right now – her face on TV screens, in front of Knudsen's sand mine. Knudsen would… he stopped. Damn it, why not?

He checked the perimeter; Knudsen's people were on the other side of the wire fence, and no alphabet Goons were near. The next thing he had to do was get out of the car, and he hesitated a moment before the first step. Stiff, shaking and exhausted – but able to walk. As long as he walked slowly, no one would notice anything.

"Find Lucille?" Hardison came to meet him.

"Nope. They ain't here. We missed."

"That would be good news, if that didn't mean they're somewhere else, doing god knows what," Hardison said. "My next guess would be the Dvorak Security building. Or even the C4 building. Damn. And we can't just go from site to site, chasing them. We should go back. And never tell them we went out for nothing."

"Yep, we should." He studied the man behind Hardison and his banner. "What's his problem?"

"_Their_ problem. These are the Concerned Lincoln Citizens, CLC – they are protesting against the sand mine and pollution. Knudsen is expanding the mine and their houses are only protected by the forest. Mostly downwind."

"Ah. Green things? That's popular now, right?"

"Popular?" Hardison frowned. "I wouldn't call it popular, it's necessary. Pollution is-"

"I mean, popular as in 'a famous TV writer engaged in saving a small community, while mourning the loss of her show', that kind of popular."

"That's insane," Hardison choked. "This is Knudsen's mine, man, the same guy who's doing everything to find her and kill her. Giving an interview on his doorstep…" Hardison paused, turned around to look at the wire fence, then turned back. "Fuck, _that_ will be a message. I have no idea what kind of message, but damn, we should do it. If nothing else, just to piss him off."

"Angry people make forced steps, and forced steps are often wrong," he smiled.

Hardison returned the grin, but the next moment the grin faded. "When we get back, keep M7 on all the screens, don't let Nate or Sophie turn on the TV. We were in the apartment, doing our job, nobody left and gave any interviews, okay?"

"They should know about it. But okay, not now. Maybe tomorrow. Eventually."

"What tomorrow?" Parker asked from their left; only three seconds ago he saw her on the opposite side.

"Nate and Sophie are not here," Hardison explained. "We came here in vain, and we won't tell them we left apartment."

"Nate will know," she stated, slurping something that looked dangerously close to hot chocolate.

"No he won't, we'll cover our tracks. If we are in the apartment when they get back, there's no way-"

"He'll know," she repeated and went away.

"We can make everything to look like we spent hours working," Hardison said to him. "Until we tell them about interview, he won't know."

"Not sure. Now go, tell Florence what to do, I'll be here and watch everything. Don't forget that Goons can recognize you – keep low. And stay together."

He moved back a few steps and leaned on a tree, resting and scanning through the crowd. The TV crew was now in front of the huge wire opening. Hardison picked up Parker and went over to Florence, explaining the idea at a fast pace.

There was about hundred people around the tents, and it wasn't a problem to scan every male face, searching for something suspicious. What he would do if he found something suspicious, well, that was a question worth thinking about.

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"And that's why we all have to be aware of the devastating impact those chemicals have on our environment, and the health of our children!" Florence finished her last statement at the same moment the gathering clouds poured the first drops of heavy rain, but the damn reporter didn't notice it was her final line. He kept pushing a microphone in her face.

"As a famous TV writer, you certainly have the power to spread the word. Have you considered including frac mining in your series, as a case your heroes would solve, if you had gotten a sixth season?"

_It's raining, you moron_, she screamed inwardly, keeping her professional smile glued to her face. In a matter of seconds, the occasional drops became a heavy curtain, and her curls hung lank, dripping on her forehead.

"Yes, certainly, we had so many more stories to tell, and frac mining was one of them, planned for the next season. All the people interested in pollution problems, and mostly, solving them, would enjoy it immensely." She gave the camera one more smile, turned around and disappeared amongst the people gathering at her back and clapping.

She had no idea how they would manage to leave this place unnoticed, to avoid her connection with the three of them and the Challenger, but before she could hide somewhere, Eliot was by her side with a huge umbrella. Those people were stealing things at every opportunity.

Parker appeared at her left, putting an unfamiliar green jacket over her shoulders, and Eliot kept the umbrella so low that she was invisible and more importantly, unrecognizable. Hardison waited for them by the car, hunched over his tablet, guarding it from the rain.

"You drive back," Eliot gave her the keys and waited until she closed the door behind her. It seemed no one noticed her retreating with them.

"Home, or to try to find them somewhere else?" she asked. Just when he sat, and darted her a strange look, she became aware she said 'home'.

"Home," he said quietly, and rested his head on the back of the seat, closing his eyes.

She drove carefully, glancing to the mirrors often to see if someone followed them. She knew all the rules about noticing a tail in traffic, she even knew how to chase someone without being seen, but this was the first chance to apply that knowledge for real. It wasn't as easy as she wrote it.

"They _could_'_ve_ been there, you know," she said after a while, when the silence became too uncomfortable. "Maybe even trying to get in, using the protesters in front. They would probably need you then. This wasn't entirely in vain."

"Pull over," Hardison murmured.

"What? Why? You have something else in mind, or-" Eliot reacted before she could, he turned the wheel to the right. She quickly stopped the car by the road.

Hardison was out, it seemed, even before they fully stopped. She squinted when she heard the sound of vomiting.

"Did I drive too fast, or-"

"No, it was fine. Just continue that way, this has nothing to do with your driving."

None of them went out to Hardison, so she sat too, just waiting for him to get it together and return.

His face was ashen, but he smiled when he sat. "That's better. Go on, I'm okay."

So she went on, trying to drive as smoothly as she could. She made a mental note to remember for the next time – _when they say something, first do what they said, then ask questions_. They lived very fast, and quick reactions was obviously one of the reasons they were still alive. This was nothing, but the next time, if she was too slow, asking questions instead of reacting, she could get them all killed.

Her passengers were a mess. Parker's legs were laid over Hardison's lap and she couldn't see her, the thief was too low. Hardison rolled his jacket under Parker's wounded leg, and he had his eyes closed too. Both of them, this time. He had removed the glasses. It was strange to see him not occupied with his devices.

They were half way there when Eliot took out his phone. Just one glance showed her he was voting in the polls.

"We lost more than an hour," he explained, noticing her attention. "I don't want to think about what Supernatural did to the numbers while I was gone."

The rest of the trip she tried to count his votes, without any attempts to break the silence again.

Less than two hours after they left the apartment, she parked the Challenger in the back street, in the same spot. They didn't lose much time, that was true, but watching them slowly getting out, she knew this had cost them much more than a small delay would. And, if she judged correctly from their faces, there was, maybe, even a hint of hurt pride. These people weren't used to failing at anything, not even at something small like this.

She kept herself behind them, following their slow climbing, hiding a smile.

Eliot stopped them all before entering the corridor, and went first. Florence knew he was just cautious and to be honest, she completely forgot that someone dangerous might wait for them.

Yet, when she followed him, and saw the reason he abruptly stopped, she realized that danger had many forms. One deadlier than the other.

Betsy was leaning on the wall in front of the locked doors of the apartment. A slow smile rolled over her face when she saw the four of them. Three of them who should've been inside the apartment, under her orders, obediently resting for two days.

"I see you went for a ride," she said. Judging by the extremely creepy calmness of her voice, she was pissed off beyond any measure.

"What ride?" Hardison moved one step closer, guarding Parker. Betsy just nodded to the car keys Florence still held in her hand. It was too late, and too stupid, to hide it now.

"I should've foreseen this," the hacker continued, muttering. "I made a small algorithm to predict the exact time of your visit – you always say what day you'll come, but the time varies. I was on the right track to find the number – but I think I can stop searching. It must be 666."

"Hey!" Eliot turned to the hacker. "You, stop demonizing my nurse. She's mine, and I love her."

"Awwww… what a nice try," her face beamed for a second, but then Florence witnessed the most terrifying thing she'd ever seen – that smile slowly freezing. Betsy looked at them, one by one, and with a deadly even voice, said just three words: "Get. In. Now."

So they did.

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	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

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"Why do you people think that taking orders from your nurse lightly is something clever? You're supposed to be smart, right?" Betsy started the moment they all set foot into the apartment. Florence closed the door behind them, and thought about escaping to the bathroom.

Betsy noticed her small steps and turned to her. "You, stay here. I'll need that bathroom."

"Betsy, we're okay. Much better than yesterday. There's no need to-" Eliot stopped when she tilted her head a little, watching him. "What?!"

"You look strange."

All of them looked at him. Except for Nate's jacket that hung on him, there wasn't anything strange, he looked completely normal. Even healthy to an untrained eye, except the paleness and tired eyes.

"You're upside down. You're standing," she explained, frowning at him. "This is the first time I've seen you in a vertical position, ever. It's… different. Unnatural."

He rolled his eyes, but before he could say anything, his phone rang.

"Nate?" He waved his hand at them to keep them silent. "In the apartment, working, where should we be? Where the hell are you?" He listened for a few seconds. "Twenty minutes? Okay, good. On your way back, buy the stuff from the list I gave you." He nodded to Hardison when he finished the call, and the hacker stepped forward.

"Betsy, we'll rest as much as you say, but now we need only a few minutes to do some things," Hardison said, taking their jackets. "Sit at the dining table, will you? Nate and Sophie will be back soon and we-"

"They told you to stay here, and you sneaked out? How old are you? All of you?" A sequoia would wither under her stare. She sat with her back to the window so she could see all of them, and the entire room.

"_They_ sneaked out to do something, not telling us! We went after them to be close if necessary. That's our job!" Hardison started to lose his calmness under her gaze. "And they ought not to know about it, okay?"

"You want me to cover your asses?" she smiled finally. "Interesting."

Eliot gave out a low growl. "You just sold your soul, Hardison. But keep the rest of us out of it." He went to the kitchen and turned the oven on.

Florence quickly took Nate's jacket to return it upstairs where she found it. But she hadn't brought him just the jacket. "Eliot…" she waved the jacket, and he sighed and went to the bathroom, leaving the things he started to pull out of the cabinets.

While he was changing, Florence sat with Betsy, studying her smile. She wasn't sure, but there seemed to be a lot of amusement under her frowning. Parker clearly thought the same, because she beamed at her on her way to the kitchen. The thief tried not to limp, yet it was impossible to hide it in front of her. Betsy darted just one look at her direction, and shook her head.

"You, my dear, have to run away from here, while you still can. They are terrible people to hang out with. A very, very, bad influence."

Florence eyed her. "I don't see you running away," she said quietly. "Does it mean they ruined you already?"

"That process is currently- and what do you think you're doing?!" Betsy looked at Parker who was pulling out five cups and five glasses. Instead of an answer, the thief carefully poured one inch of juice into two tall glasses, and placed them before the two of them. She repeated the procedure with the three remaining glasses, and Hardison took them to the coffee table in front of the sofa.

Parker started the coffee machine, Hardison went to turn on all the laptops, and Eliot returned from the bathroom, changed into blue pajamas, proceeding to the kitchen. Florence watched the play, fascinated, knowing she was watching years of experience; they didn't have to decide who would do what and why.

"Florence?" Eliot gave her the clothes and she jumped up; Hardison was pulling one of the glass boards closer to Eliot's bed and the table, and she was trying to decipher his moves. She hurried upstairs, returning the clothes to the same position where she found them. By the time she returned, Parker had poured coffee into the cups. She was just pouring the coffee out of them, leaving only a few drops in all of them, as if they finished it a long time ago.

"Okay, that's enough," Betsy stopped Parker, but only after she finished. "Checking your leg. Bathroom. Now." She shooed the thief before her.

The bathroom being mentioned gave her an idea, and she searched through her bags, finding a robe. She used Eliot's rummaging through the kitchen, and Hardison's printing some papers, and retreated into the upper bathroom.

Her hair was already wet from the rain, and she needed just to change into the robe, and wrap a towel around her head. While climbing down again, she paid attention to her posture, and managed to look – and feel – as if she spent an entire hour in a relaxing bath.

Much to her surprise, the apartment was already filled with the scent of cinnamon and vanilla, and that was impossible. He turned the oven on just minutes ago, and he was making… something… to put it into it.

"If our luck holds, Betsy would leave before they return," Eliot said when she leaned on the kitchen desk to see what he was doing. He noticed her confused glance to the oven. "It's an old trick – a little cinnamon and vanilla in a heated oven to destroy the smell of fish. It also helps when you have to pretend you were busy in the kitchen more than one hour."

"And what are you doing?"

"Basic muffins. But it's illusory to expect of Nate to have cups or a mould, so I'll bake it as a thin biscuit and cut it into squares. It won't take more than fifteen minutes." He finished pouring the mixture, and put it in the oven.

She could only blink; he made a _cake_ in the time she needed to change. And in the same time, Hardison filled the board with printed papers, making that part of the room a busy, messy console, with papers scattered all over the bed, table and… oh shit. Papers weren't the only thing scattered on and under the table. It was too late to hide it, Eliot followed her gaze to the soil all around the plant. Orion was nowhere to be seen, she noticed just then.

Well, almost nowhere to be seen. Eliot pointed to the other part of the room, where the bags were piled, and a small piece of white tail sticking out of one bag.

"Talk to him," he growled, taking out his phone and dialing. Florence managed to keep her face serious. "Nate? Bring a bag of soil. Yep, you heard me. No, it doesn't have to be a special mixt- wait, are you mocking my plant? Well, _don't_." He ended the call, frowning. "And you, don't laugh."

"I'm not," she swallowed a chuckle, watching the hint of self–aware irony softening his mouth into a smile. "Why's that plant so special?"

He paused, choosing his words. "He survived a murder attempt recently," he spoke finally, almost hesitating. "He doesn't need a homicidal… a planticidal cat to repeat it."

"Let me guess… _you_ were the one who tried to kill him?"

"I said, don't laugh," he growled again, but his eyes laughed. "It's complicated."

How he could be so frighteningly… frightening, and so charming, both at the same time? She wanted to hear everything about the plant, but asking questions would erase that smile, and she didn't want that.

"Maybe if you offer the plant to Orion, he would lose interest," she continued thoughtfully. "I'm sure he's doing it just because your reactions entertain him."

His eyes met hers squarely for almost the first time today, after he hit her, and she tried not to show even the slightest memory of that. "So, him hiding in the bag isn't just retreating after the mischief, it's a carefully plotted plan that should make me investigate his doings, adding more fuel to his fun?" he said. "He is a cat. He doesn't have a brain capable of-"

"Oh, you would be surprised by the elaborated stages and complexity of his plans," she paused, and thought better. "You _will_ be surprised. Just wait."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Parker was his first enemy, she grabbed him and brought him here, remember? So she had to be his first target, and she went down fast. Now, Parker is wrapped around his claw," she said completely serious. Then she lowered her voice into a whisper. "You're next."

His eyes lit up and the smile widened, but that only reminded her that she hadn't heard him laugh, not even once since she came here. And the majority of his rare smiles were just attempts to fix the mess when and after he scared her. He surely didn't know how his smiling was easing everything around him, making it natural and comfortable, and she found herself wishing he would do it more often.

"If you're done chatting, I could use a hand here." Only Hardison's call reminded her that they spent five seconds in silence, just smiling.

Eliot waited a moment before he turned to the things he had spread – intentionally – all over the kitchen, and she thought he wanted to add something more. But the frown was back.

She hurried to help Hardison, thinking about what else she could do to help grift grifters.

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Betsy and Parker were in the bathroom longer than ten minutes, and Eliot could hear the sound of low voices. Hardison's worried glares to the bathroom increased in frequency to one every fifteen seconds, but he made no attempt to save the thief from the lecturing.

Everything was set. He even made another batch to put in the oven when this one was done, the trash can was full, the kitchen was a mess, and he could sit. That proved to be a mistake. He needed a bed, not tiresome sitting at the dining table. The adrenaline, or better to say, the pitiful remains of it he collected for this trip, were slowly ebbing away, leaving him dizzy and exhausted. He _had_ to sit, because simply standing in the kitchen became too much for him.

He would be much better if he had let Florence drive the entire trip, but he had to know. If Knudsen decided to attack today instead of tomorrow, if they had to go somewhere, if he had to fight, if, if, if… his ability to function could mean the difference between life and death, in the most literal way possible.

"Tell me again, why we're playing this game?" he asked Hardison when the hacker came to sit with him, bringing him his laptop along with his own.

"Humor me," Hardison muttered a reply. "I'm not in the mood for Nate's smirking."

He eyed the hacker – still pale, still squinting. He looked as if he needed a bed more than he did, but he held his tablet and never stopped working on it.

"Find something new?" he asked while checking the voting page; just as he thought, they were way behind in numbers.

"I've already printed the biggest part of those new things. The Concerned Lincoln Citizens are fighting an already lost battle, I'm afraid. I'll have to dig deeper to find everything about Frac mining, but what I found already ain't pretty. And there are those Chinese trucks… all the huge yellow dump and tipper trucks are Chinese," Hardison stretched out his arm and glanced at the tablet. "Xiamen XGMA. And many words I can't pronounce."

"Knudsen imported the trucks from China? Unless they are cheaper than a monthly bus ticket, that doesn't make any sense."

"It has to have something to do with taxes… every suspicious business decision has to have something to do with taxes."

"But, the packages on the Ford pickup had Chinese letters on them, too."

Hardison sighed, giving him a sideways glance. "You're sure you didn't stir up some Chinese cartel along with the others That Night?"

"I planned to, but didn't have enough time," he said shortly, leaving it to the hacker to decide if he was joking or not.

What Hardison's conclusion was, he never knew, because Parker and Betsy came out of the bathroom. He wasn't surprised when he saw Parker's smile, the same one with which she entered. Betsy walked behind her and her eyes were wide open and glazed over. More than ten minutes of lecturing, heavy lecturing, and the result was a Parker who didn't hear a word of it, happily thinking whatever she was thinking before it started.

He would grin evilly, if he didn't know that Betsy's frustration would spill over on him; Hardison only needed a quick vision check. He contemplated telling her about the hacker's vomiting, but that wouldn't be fair.

Parker went to sit on the sofa by Florence, and just then he saw what she was doing – the small table was loaded with little bottles and strange things from the toiletry bag, and she was painting her toenails.

"Good idea," Hardison observed them too. "She really looks like she spent two hours in the bathroom."

"Nah, she made one mistake, and the moment she goes near him, Nate will know."

"So?" Hardison asked. "When will you tell her?"

"I can't. I mustn't. The last time I mentioned it, she-" he stopped and sighed. "She's already twitching every time I – if I start in on it again, she'll really think I have something against her. She even asked me if I was allergic to it, in Lucille. Seriously, you tell her."

"Tell her _what_?"

"She wrapped up wet hair – not washed hair."

Hardison tilted his head, waiting. _Where the fuck is that brilliance when it's needed?_

"It doesn't _smell_ like freshly washed hair, Hardison," he growled, pissed off because he forced him to say that.

"Ah," Hardison grinned. "You mean, she doesn't smell like _Garnier avocado oil and shea butter hair conditioner_?" He studiously enunciated every single word.

"What's your point?! He will notice, he'll know she was in the rain, and not in the shower – I'm just anticipating his moves. Now go and tell her. Or do you want to deal with Betsy while she's in shock after Parker?" he nodded to Betsy who was getting rid of the thief's bandages, preparing another set. They were next.

Hardison got up, but looked at his laptop and sighed. "Too late, they're here." He turned to the girls. "ETA one minute – look busy."

Eliot glanced over the room, checking the stage. Messy kitchen and finished cake, boards full of papers, two of them at the table with laptops and a tablet, drank coffee, drank juice, Florence finishing her nails and Parker had turned on the episode as if she was watching it, obeying Betsy's orders. The thief even turned on the right episode, as if they had watched two in the meantime. He was skeptical when they started, but now he thought it might even work.

Until Nate and Sophie entered, carrying tons of bags, and until Nate looked over the entire room, and at them, one by one.

And smirked.

What the hell did they miss? Hardison picked up all the soil, even changed Orion's litter box. He noticed that the cat went to meet Nate and Sophie, looking as if he was glad to see them. He got up, took George from the working table and brought him to the dining one - keeping an eye on him seemed to be the only certain way to stop the cat from digging.

"I see you were busy," the bastard said softly. Just then he remembered that they should be pissed because of their play, and not vice versa.

"An explanation of your doings would be nice," he said. "Whatever you did, you could tell us."

"Yes, you're probably right," Nate sighed. "It would have been easier with earbuds – but it went fine. We sent Inspector of Department of Natural Resources to visit Knudsen. He gave us a bunch of papers. Hardison, you'll look at it later. And we shall discuss it later, thoroughly. Betsy, how are they doing? When did you arrive?"

All of them waited for her reply, and Eliot knew she paused intentionally.

"Not sure, we were drinking coffee before I checked them," she said finally. "This one tried to avoid changing bandages by playing in the kitchen, but now he can't escape it anymore. Unless you need him for something?"

"Can't it wait for a few more minutes?" Sophie asked, placing two suspiciously giant bags by the table. Both of them sat, Nate glancing at their laptops.

Florence and Parker, thank god, played dead.

"Oh, it can," Betsy smiled. "But not like you think. I have a few words for them. And you."

Oh, shit. She held them in her hand now, they had to be silent. The storm was just postponed, she waited for all of them to gather.

"It's good you're here too, because it's important that everyone knows the situation. Which isn't so bright. First, working with electronic equipment with a concussion," she directed her stare at Hardison who stiffened visibly, "is forbidden. _Was_ forbidden, if I recall correctly. You should've spent today in the dark, resting, in sensory deprivation, to avoid headaches and nausea."

Hardison looked at the tablet and the laptop, not sure which one he should stop looking at first. Then gave up, sighed, and just looked neutrally into the table between them.

"Second, you two with stitches," Betsy continued. "Until they are out, you're not healed."

He knew better than to interrupt, but Parker raised her hand. "It's not so dangerous, Betsy, I drove the van the same night-"

"Exactly. You did that, and because of that, you're not able to walk normally, which you might've been by now, if you spent those days in bed, not using your leg, leaving it to heal. You," she finally turned to him, shaking her head, "I don't know where to start. You do realize you should've been in the hospital this entire time, tied to a bed? You people seem unable to realize you have fucking _holes_ in your body, that only thin surgical sutures keep closed. Tearing it apart means prolonging your recovery, deteriorating and further endangering yourself. Gunshot wounds need time to heal, more than clean knife cuts. I'm filling you with anti- inflammatory drugs, keeping this shit under control, for now, and what do you do when I turn my back on you? You, both, went into dirty ruins, in dust, in water, and _fought_?!"

They all knew – four of them – that the anger was a reaction to this latest trip, and not to the slaughterhouse. And the worst part of it was that he completely agreed with every word she said.

"You two look as if you have a little more sense," Betsy turned to Nate and Sophie. "At least, you seem more responsible than them. Do what you can to stop them from doing anything risky, or I don't want to be responsible for the outcome. I can take care of them if they are here, and listening, but if anything happens, it will be a case for a hospital, not a nurse. They walk, yes… but they are not okay, not even close, and I'm tired of repeating that. This idiot has a hole in his chest, and he was _fighting_?!"

Well, that needed a reply. "And nothing happened, Betsy. I barely used my right hand, the stitches are okay, as you saw. The alternative was much worse, trust me. I didn't do it for fun and because I wanted to. I had to."

"Irrelevant. There'll always be things that ought to be done. Someone has to stop you while you're still alive." She looked at Nate and Sophie again. "Do what you can. Because I have no more means to pour any reason into them."

Ha, this was interesting. He studied the neutral expression on Nate's face, wondering how he would deal with Betsy's instructions about immobility, and his own deadline of two days that he gave him to function – and he couldn't stop an evil grin. Any reaction of Nate's wouldn't be important anyway, not even his decision, it was up to him to decide what to do and when. But he pretty much enjoyed his inner squirming.

But then he noticed Sophie's worried eyes, and realized the real trouble here – she didn't care about the case and Nate's deadlines, she cared only about them; she would be Betsy's most dangerous minion in this crusade.

Why couldn't these people just let him be at peace, and leave him to heal on his own? He was doing great - he knew how to heal – and he knew how to cope with delays and the troubles from it. He welcomed Nate returning to bastard mode, and he hoped this wouldn't hinder it.

"So, Betsy, do you have any exact advice about Parker's time in bed?" he said lightly. "Like hours, minutes, that sort of orders?"

Parker looked at him, bewildered.

"As much as you can keep her."

"It would be the best if she's in bed twenty-four hours a day, right?" he grinned, enjoying the thief's discomfort immensely. "Now we have to calculate how many hours and minutes she wasn't and see that count-"

"Stop gloating, you moron," Betsy hissed at him, totally unimpressed. "I talked with Dr. Sciortino today. I _lied_ to him. I told him you're doing great, and that a few days ago you started _sitting up _in bed on your own – perhaps at the same time you were busting up the poor people in that slaughterhouse. Your first attempts to walk should be in the next few days, he said. He told me to encourage you to walk, now. And that, not this shit, is what your recovery should've looked like! God, if only you didn't make that show back in the hospital when Patrick tried restraints, we could've been at peace!" Now it was his turn to look aghast, but he refused to whiten under her angry stare. "So, don't push my patience too hard – you _really_ don't want to see how it looks when it snaps. Am I making myself clear here, Eliot?"

He contemplated a few responses, but every one of them finished with a Yes, Ma'am, anyway, so he shortened it. "Yes Ma'am," he smiled as sweet as he could.

"Don't you eyelash at me, it's not working. Now, bathroom. Move."

Damn, he really didn't need that slight sway when he got up.

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The first sign that this day might not be a complete disaster was Sophie opening the door of the bathroom, and her hand reaching through the crack, with a bluish _plaid_ shirt in it. The days of daisy-holding elephant pajamas were over, finally. He mentally added _yay_, then hated himself.

Parker would get over it, eventually.

When Betsy finally left, not softening even a bit – he reminded himself to be extra nice and careful tomorrow – he went back to the room, seriously thinking about just crashing into the bed. Voting could wait. _Everything_ could wait, he needed rest desperately. If he slept an hour or two now, he could spend the entire night just voting and talking to people, along with watching a few more episodes.

Yet, all the plans were dismissed when he noticed the odor of burnt cake, and instead of the bed, he headed for the kitchen. Five of them, _five of them_, and they weren't able to keep an eye on one oven?

"We were distracted." Nate was studying Hardison's papers. Hardison was lying down, keeping a pillow on his head, and Parker and Florence were sitting at the kitchen desk, watching Sophie trying to save the cake. Sophie was cutting the black mass into triangles. He suppressed a growl.

"Leave it, I'll make another one for dinner. Put the second mixture in the oven, but only fifteen minutes." He looked at all of them and sighed. "That means you have to take them out after fifteen minutes."

"Tired of voting?" Nate casually asked, flipping the pages studiously.

"Don't start," he pointed to Parker. "If you want to say something, tell her."

"Why? I didn't spend those hours in the kitchen, I was resting as ordered. _All these hours_. Resting. Doing nothing, here in the apartment."

"Ah." Nate slowly turned another page, not watching them at all.

Sophie scrubbed the black parts off the cake. Florence was studying one eggshell intensively, trying to look like she had no idea of what they were talking about, and what Nate was implying. She sucked at it.

He sighed. One more minute of standing, and his legs would start to shake, he didn't have time for this. "Okay, what did we miss?" he asked Nate directly.

"Nothing," he grinned. "Though I would leave at least one glass of juice almost full."

Parker hissed, but said nothing.

"Before we took Lucille, I checked the tripometer in the Challenger," Nate smiled dryly. "And I checked it when we returned. The mileage is the exact amount of miles to the sand excavation camp and back."

"That's cheating," he objected.

"Nope, that's anticipating," Nate finally left the papers and looked at him. "When Hardison gets up – and he said he'll just rest for fifteen minutes - we can exchange notes. If you don't need-"

"No way," Sophie came out of the kitchen and looked at him closely. "He needs to sit down, and he needs it _now_. Come with me." He restrained himself from scooting away from her worry, and softness, and gentleness, and… arghh. Here we go. _Thank you Betsy_.

He could refuse and be rude, she wouldn't mind, she knew him well. But he'd already done that to her once this morning, and he felt like shit because of it – snapping at her twice in one day would be too much. So he sighed, and sat at the dining table where she pointed.

She shooed Nate and his papers to the other end of it, moved George aside and pushed the laptops to Nate. Orion jumped on the table, sat and looked at George.

It was only when she brought the bags, that he realized the trap – and there was no going back.

"You'll enjoy this," she cooed pulling the clothes from the bags, pile after pile.

Florence and Parker turned their chairs from the kitchen toward the dining table, and he could _feel_ their smiles.

So he put his elbows on the table, rested his head in his hand, and prepared himself for something that no living man could've been prepared for.

Orion cheerfully jumped onto one pile, and started to purr.

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	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

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Eliot said goodbye to resting when Hardison got up, and Sophie still hadn't finished with the clothes. He was lucky she didn't make him try on every one of them; catching a bullet had some advantages, after all. With the cargo pants and the simple gray shirt he chose from the pile he felt almost human again, so it was worth it.

Hardison, who obviously tried to take Betsy's orders seriously, pulled the boards covered with papers up to the dining table, instead of displaying his notes on the screens, while the rest of the team and Florence sat around the table.

Orion slept peacefully in the middle of the table, on the piled shirts. He envied him, intensively. He was tired to the bone, and keeping his eyes opened needed concentration; though, the most beautiful pieces Sophie saved for the end – soft pink and something _flowery_ – shot terror through him and enabled him to straighten up. Flee or fight instincts sometimes weren't so bad.

He got up and started the prep for pasta for six; standing in the kitchen and concentrating on food would keep him functioning a little more. Nate, surprisingly, bought everything he'd listed. He put the bag of soil by the bag of almonds on the kitchen floor, and spent some time looking them, side by side. He stopped when he felt Sophie's eyes searching his face.

Sophie offered to cut another round of cake and he let her do it only because refusing would be noticed and remembered. Triangles, _again_.

"The muffin cups are in the upper left cupboard, behind the hidden empty bottles," she whispered, quietly, not disturbing Hardison's speech. She perched herself on the kitchen counter chair, keeping an eye on his doings – on him and his moves - and at the same time watching the dining table.

When Hardison played the recording of Florence's interview on his laptop, he hoped she would go over there to watch it, but she just listened.

"You waved Florence, _his target_, right in front of Knudsen's eyes?!" Nate sounded as if he was still deciding if he should he be pissed off, or laugh.

Hardison dived into a long explanation, slowly turning it to the Concerned Lincoln Citizens, and Nate let him do that. Yet, it was clear that he wasn't happy with the new aspect which he had to calculate into the situation.

So what? They weren't happy with their sneaking away either. Eliot made double mixture of cake, the third one, and divided it in halves. In one half he mixed cereal, in the other one gummy frogs, trying to hide a grimace of disgust. The grifter's small smile showed him that it didn't go unnoticed.

Instead of scowling at her, which he knew would only provoke another gentle smile, he put the onions five inches from her elbow, and started to cut them very slowly, very studiously.

He managed exactly three things – she eeped and ran away to the table; he almost cut himself because he couldn't see shit through his own tears, and Parker straightened in her chair in alarm.

"What are you doing?" Her voice was high, silencing Hardison's full report about the barbeque near the mine.

"Bolognese and Puttanesca; both done in less than half an hour. Why?"

"Your chopping is fifty percent slower than the last time when you chopped fennel. It should've been quicker by today."

He sighed, then removed the onions, and chopped the celery at usual speed. "Better?"

"Better," she lowered herself again, still narrow-eyed and suspicious.

He wiped his eyes with a bare hand, soaking them in onion juice, and cursed silently. This day, disastrous from the very morning, seemed to continue in the same vein.

The last bit of proof was a wave of very nasty dizziness that hit him when he bent to the lower cabinet to grab olive oil – when he straightened up, he had to lean with both hands on the counter to keep himself from falling. He had to do something unheard of – he took a tall chair and brought it _inside_ the kitchen.

Cursing was useless, especially silent cursing, but it felt good.

Hardison finished the explanation, and started with the things that were new to everybody.

"I'm starting to like this Knudsen guy," Hardison said. "His dealings are elegant and sneaky. Those air pollution monitors he donated to the DNR? They are very good and very useful, everybody would agree on that. Accuracy is very important, and scientists can analyze the contents mechanically and chemically and produce other numbers to show the components and amounts of the particles in the bag. You see, even the most sophisticated models are nothing more than vacuum cleaners that suck a measured amount of air and dust through a HEPA - High Efficiency Particulate Air - filter over a week or so and then weigh the bag."

"Are they placed in isolate locations? Open to sabotage of any sort?" Nate asked.

"No need to sabotage them," Hardison said. "The Concerned Lincoln Citizens have explanations in their pamphlet. The monitors tell – accurately – everything that scientists need to know. But, here are the problems. Number one: the pile of dust collected is a total over time - a week- and is thus an average. Are we saying that during four days of the week the mine can really exceed air pollution limits and standards and then on the other three days cut way back, so the average number meets the specifications?"

"If they are monitoring it themselves, calculation is very easy, they can always stay below the limit. And citizens are under the heavy poisons," Nate quietly said.

"Number two," Hardison went on. "Assuming that the mine had a problem that their own sensors did not detect, with clouds of nearly invisible pollution, the DNR report could be as much as two weeks behind in alerting citizens – because it takes one week to collect one bag, and at least one week to analyze it and make a report."

"And two weeks, in the case of severe poisoning, can be lethal," Sophie almost whispered.

Eliot put the pasta into the boiling water, and spiced the meat ready to be put in with the already frying onions. Yet, he watched Nate, his face that became emptier with every word Hardison said. He knew what that closing meant. He'd seen it before.

"Number three?" Nate said, his voice fell further.

Hardison exhaled and licked his lips. "Number three… the most important one… is that those monitors he provided don't… The collection bag or filter does not collect particles smaller than two and a half microns. If you are concerned about air quality, the particles smaller than two and a half microns are exactly the ones you should be interested in since they easily pass deep into the lungs and cause real problems. Since these tiny particles pass right through the bag, they are not collected or weighed. Knudsen's mine is a Frac sand mine – there's a huge demand for silica sand right now – and that means Silicosis. With the two-week warning time line, and the possibility of huge amounts of pollution, we're talking about many soon-to-be cases of _a__cute _silicosis, which is lethal. The Concerned Lincoln Citizens are downwind from the mine. Their houses. Their schools."

And that was it. Eliot clearly saw the mind switch in Nate's brain, and heard the click when he set it to 'destroy'.

_Calm down_, he said to himself, _there's nothing to worry about right now_ – dealing with Knudsen might bring his mine down with him, too, without the need to stretch any action. This all still could stay within the normal limits, without becoming a war.

Fear and worry clenched into a leaden weight in his belly, and he tried to even his breathing. He needed fucking meditation just to stop thinking.

"And remember, I was talking only about air pollution," Hardison added with hesitation. "Water pollution, with the chemicals used in drilling water, and radiation and the different shit that's a byproduct of it, I haven't studied yet."

"Take your time," Nate said softly, his mind visibly already working at full speed. "This is the entire conversation with Knudsen, see if you can use something."

Nate played Sophie's talk with Knudsen, and Eliot's blood ran cold and boiled at the same time.

Don Lazzara was there. Don Lazzara _saw_ Sophie.

He only heard two sentences from the man That Night, but his voice was carved deep into his mind – calm and slow, so polite it was almost sweet; much more dangerous than Villacorta. The Chilean was a businessman – the Italian was deadly. Don Lazzara held the power of many generations in the line, and his voice carried it, he could feel it.

"Please don't tell me he was there." His voice was a barely audible whisper, but it cut through their comments and stopped them. "_Please_, don't tell me you sent Sophie to him, to _see_ her."

"We didn't know he would be there," Nate said leaning back in his chair, tenting his fingers together, watching him.

He cut the last tomato with one move and pushed it aside, turning to the table. His anger boiled. "Maybe you would know, if you took us with you, if you told Hardison to track him and to check out the meeting place!"

"And maybe not," Nate tilted his head a little. "If you have an idea how a grifter could grift a mark without the mark actually seeing her, do share."

"Don Lazzara is not our mark! Don Lazzara is something we all agreed to avoid at any cost!" Just as he said that, he became aware of _all_ thefuckups they were heading into. "You planned to take him down too, all this time?! After all that crap in the beginning, when you said this would only be an investigation?! Helping the police find evidence? What the hell are you doing, Nate?" His voice was more yelling than snarling by now, but he couldn't care less.

One corner of Nate's mouth turned up, in a light, careless smile, and his vision went red.

Sophie was back by his side in a second. He saw her only as a blurred motion in his way, until she laid her hand on his hand still holding the knife. And kept it there.

"Eliot, I took everything I came for, there wasn't any real danger." Her soft voice penetrated the hiss of blood pumping in his ears.

"Back off, Sophie," he snarled. He heard the fear in her recorded voice, they scared her. And they were alone there, because this idiot was spinning out of control again, _now_, of all times. "This has to stop."

He had no idea what Nate heard in his voice, but he got up in one swift move. His eyes were burning. "What, exactly, has to stop, Eliot?" he said coming closer.

"You can't take down Don Lazzara." He tried to gather all the thoughts reeling in his mind. "And you can't go against the Frac mine. Not now, Nate!"

"But we can take down Knudsen? Is he a comfortably small mob boss for you?" That crooked smile appeared again, driving him completely nuts. What the hell he was trying to do? If this was just another poke at him, this time he might learn not to play with things he couldn't control.

"You used Sophie on both of them as an inspector, and let them see her! Knudsen's men saw her in the corridor, she's burned from now on. The goons know about me and Hardison – and I wouldn't be surprised if some of them saw you in the C4 building as a police inspector when you talked to Brewer! We were running out of possibilities even before we started proper recon. And we're crippled. Going after them, all of them, is fucking suicide." He had to stop before he had to catch his breath, and he pushed away Sophie's hand. "Even if I'm in the best condition, it would be too dangerous, too damn risky! Now, it's madness!"

"Do I look like a madman, Eliot?"

"We can pull off this Season Six Job – maybe. We have to take down mobsters and Knudsen, so we'll do it, or we'll die. That's two jobs, Nate, at the same time, two. Fucking. Jobs! We've never done that before, not even when we all were at our best. I can't protect you! And now, as if doing two jobs isn't bad enough, isn't _deadly_ enough, you're going after the Frac mine and Don Lazzara!"

"We're not talking about four jobs, Eliot. We are talking about the center of gravity. About one point, exactly."

He stared at him.

Then he looked the rest of the team, frozen and silent. He would get them all killed, they would follow him in whatever crazy and suicidal plan he went with.

But he wouldn't. Not this time.

They couldn't do it without a hitter, they couldn't even _start_ that madness without him.

"You've lost your fucking mind," he said quietly, with effort. He slowly put away the knife and wiped his hands. "Move away," he snarled when Nate came one step closer. That stopped him.

He threw the rag on the counter, took his keys, and left.

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The first half an hour he managed to drive without a single thought, mind clear, entirely blocking out the whole conversation, forcing himself to calm down. His control was better, he could do that now; control over the body and the mind were equally important, one without the other was useless.

The only thing he couldn't control – and he tried, he fucking _tried_ – were feelings. And that was trouble. Anger and fear were spinning inside, feeding each other until they melted into one, familiar: despair. Helplessness.

At that point he gave up, turned west and started to speed up, keeping Boston at his back.

He had no idea what he was doing and that drove him crazy. He wasn't used to irrational behavior, he didn't do that. He was the rational and steady one. Or he used to be.

No, really, _what_ he was doing?

Of all the crazy things he could do, this one was perhaps the most futile. This wasn't solving anything, wasn't changing things. And the facts were cruel and cold.

He couldn't leave them.

Even now – and he'd been driving less than an hour – he was restless because he wasn't _there_, with them, because they were alone in the apartment marked on a mobster's list as the last known trace of Florence, and no fucking control could stop all the disaster scenarios from playing out in his mind. He couldn't control himself, but he needed to keep the situation under control, that was helping. When he was there, things seemed to be covered.

If they weren't already in danger and if a client's life wasn't threatened, he would leave. Without a hitter, they would be forced to stay put – Nate would be forced to stop – and it would pay off in the long term… but leaving them now would mean only letting them get killed.

They could pull off Season Six. If he got himself together – and he was still trying to make himself function – they might be able to take Knudsen down. He already dreaded _that_. And there wasn't any word, any feeling that could describe what he felt about going after Don Lazzara and the Frac mine at the same time. Except despair.

He was supposed to protect them. To keep them alive from mobsters. And he had to bring a fucking chair into the kitchen, because he wasn't able to _stay_ on his feet.

The speedometer showed 120. His heartbeat was catching up.

Well, this was functioning. Rage and fear made him more alive again, more concentrated. He would pay for this, very soon, but for now he felt the old synchronicity of the mind and body, the sharpness that he missed for so long. It wasn't important that even his shoulders were trembling from the effort, and the buzzing in his head went into an alarming frequency – speed was keeping him on the edge. The fall would be nasty, and quick, but now he _needed_ this no matter what cost he'd pay.

His mind and body were occupied with this concentration, but the damn feelings couldn't be stopped.

Nate had been joking when he said that he was insecure and scared – but now, without a doubt, and with a painful clarity, he realized how right Nate really was. With only one objection – he wasn't insecure and scared. He was ruined and terrified.

He almost lost control of the car when it hit him, and for a few seconds he was fighting to stay on the road – no traffic around him, thank god – but the anger and fear were still burning their way out and he pressed the gas pedal again.

Yes, he _was_ ruined and terrified – of course he was. Gunshots and dark threw him back into deranged ruin; his right arm was useless, he couldn't allow himself to even stretch it out completely because of the stitches; he could walk short distances, with a lot of resting; he couldn't force himself even once to look at the passenger's seat, scared of whom he might see there. Exhaustion was turning his mind off, a black out was dangerous for everybody near him. Weak, unreliable, still weary and still half mad.

Betsy was right. Any other person would be sitting up in bed right now, happy with the progress, looking forward to the first steps. With a walker.

And yet, he had to decide – now – if they would have a hitter or not. _Now_. Simple as that.

The roaring of the machine was nothing compared to the roaring in his brain. No pressing the pedal could help to clear that mess, to help him solve that shit. To clear out all that garbage.

What the hell could he do? What the hell Nate was doing?

He laughed. Fuck, the last time he laughed with this choking pain in his heart was before Barclay. Then, the decision to force himself to live just a little longer seemed easier than this one now – to force himself to keep _them_ alive. To function. To help. To protect them.

_Ruined and terrified_.

He was so absorbed in the turmoil that he only then became aware of the hills and woods all around him – no traffic, no people, just the roaring and screeching of tires. He left all the main roads, choosing smaller ones, until he ended up on a narrow path through the woods. He was alone – finally, completely alone. Free to think, to feel, to listen to his own messages and signs.

And all led to only one thing, one truth.

The difference between their life and death, was _him_.

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Responsibility was a bitch. So was reality. Together, working as a pair, they seemed very determined to make this as hard as they could, adding aggravating circumstances to his every thought. He was so tired of fighting his own shit, and the shit that surrounded him.

He was tired, by now, of even pressing the gas and holding the wheel, and his concentration couldn't follow the speed. He slowed down when he started to drift away, driving on auto pilot, not really seeing anything.

He couldn't win this fight, not in this condition.

He remembered what he had told Florence_. No winning. Just refusing to lose. _

And just like that, in a second and without warning, he knew what he had to do.

The only thing he could do to start functioning again, was to _continue_ to be ruined and terrified. To stop fighting it, trying to win. That was futile and it would only exhaust him more. He needed his entire strength for other things, other fights. To defeat _himself_, he only needed a decision.

This time, when he laughed, there wasn't any pain in that sound.

He fought those feelings, and tried to escape, and the more he struggled, the stronger their grasp was, more devastating. He had beat his own body and forbid it to die – he had analyzed it and learned everything he needed to put it under control. He could do it again, with a much stronger enemy this time – but that enemy was within his reach now. He could be used, as he used that damn morphine pump, studied it and made it work for him; this enemy – him, ruined and terrified – could be sectioned into pieces until it came under his control. That would be enough to avoid losing, and he needed nothing more for now.

He slowed down more, as his mind slowed down too, until the roaring in his head became just a soft whisper. Keeping his eyes open became a heavy effort, falling off the adrenaline high hit him in seconds.

He should go back. He had no idea how long he had been driving, where he was, and how long he could stay awake before he crashed down. No earbud, no phone. He wasn't used to making such mistakes, dammit. Weariness was blurring everything around him, and he removed his foot from the gas pedal, barely aware of it.

He turned the car off the road and stopped it, turning the engine off.

It was so strange to hear the silence again. He could hear only his own breathing – still uneven and ragged as if he'd ran – but the calmness in his mind finally matched the calmness around him. Mistakes weren't important anymore – only his reaction to them was. And that was the only difference he needed.

When he managed to unclench his grasp on the wheel, his hands were shaking, again, badly… but this time he just smiled. The almonds had been waiting for them all this time.

Yet almonds couldn't fix the weariness, couldn't do anything to the hole in his lung, and make it healed. Just to try, he slowly and carefully reached with his right arm, forcing himself to turn to the passenger's seat.

_The empty seat. No Tapia. No Alejandro_.

Before he touched the back seat, the move painfully pulled all the muscles in his chest and shoulder and he had to stop. _Easy, just easy…_ it'd come in time. He only had to wait. Every move of his arm became heavy effort, but this time he just observed it, neutrally, without freaking out; gravity was pulling him with seemingly triple strength and…

Gravity. _Fuck_.

He slowly leaned forward and rested his forehead on the wheel.

The center of the gravity. _That bastard_. Now he knew what Nate was trying to do.

That might even work, was his last thought before everything around him became gray and blurred, and finally black.

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	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

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The first things Eliot checked when he regained consciousness, without opening his eyes, were the sounds. Chirping, the soft rustle of leaves when a breeze moved through the trees, and the very, very distant sound of traffic, coming from behind him, where he left the main road.

The scent of warm soil had a trace of vanilla in it.

He opened his eyes and slowly straightened up, feeling like everything around him still moved a little. Then he looked at the pair of legs in sneakers that were swinging in front of him, and realized that the Challenger _was_ rocking a bit.

His movement was like a motion detector going off, she felt it, and Parker turned upside down, now her head was hanging in front of him. The dizziness ran wild and he squinted.

"If you keeping making these cereal muffins, Betsy won't have to know about this little trip of yours," she said with her mouth full. _Okay, one good thing, they remembered to turn the oven off._

He slowly turned his head to the left, to Lucille parked only few a meters away – he didn't hear it coming – and four of them lined up, and watching him. The side doors were open, Sophie and Florence were sitting on the floor. _Another good thing – they didn't leave Florence alone in the apartment. _

"When…?" he started, his voice strangely uneven.

"A minute ago," Parker cheerfully said. "We checked if you were alive, and decided to let you come together on your own."

A wise move. But she knew how to speed it up, sending vibrations to his subconsciousness; her leg swinging wasn't accidental.

"How?" He left his phone at the apartment, they couldn't track him.

"I never – okay, rarely – make the same mistake twice," Hardison said, pointing behind his back. In the dark inside of Lucille he saw his monitor, all dark except of the one giant green dot. He squinted and sharpened his vision, focusing, and the blurry giant dot became many, many little green dots in one cluster. That wasn't _one_ fucking tracking device in his car. There was more than ten of them. He imagined all the time he would spend searching for them and cleaning it, and moaned, thrusting his head back on the wheel.

"Why?" he muttered.

"Are you trying to write an article, Eliot?" Nate asked dryly. "You need the _who and where_ to complete your inquiry. _What_, we shall keep for ourselves, this time."

He turned his head on the wheel and looked at him through the hair that fell over his eyes. And said nothing.

"So, _what_ is the result of this?" Nate asked.

If nothing else, Nate had that irritating ability to sum all shit up. He continued to look at him, trying to choose his words. "You can't guarantee that the center of the gravity would suck it all down, and you know that."

"There's no guarantee in anything we do. _You_ know that."

"This time is different. This time we can all die," he said. Nate just raised his eyebrows, so he collected all his thoughts and continued, "Where are you with your Plans? Which letter are you on, _now_?"

Nate smiled. "All of them."

Well, that shouldn't calm his fears, but it did. It wasn't like he had any choice now, anyway. Leaving them for real was never an option, it was only a matter of deciding _who_, exactly, would stay with them.

Then, continuing with that _staying_, he remembered the third thing that wasn't so good – George was left with Orion, alone, for the second time in one day. He should've brought him with him, but his leaving the apartment with a plant tucked under his arm would be maybe, just maybe, a little weird. He shook that off and took a deep breath.

"I need to know something," Florence said suddenly before he could say anything. He looked at her, just then noticing she had something on her head. No time to dry her hair, he realized, so she wrapped it up with something dark. "Nate, what, why, how-" she stopped under Nate's smile, and took another turn. "What's going on? What plans, what letters, how many jobs? And why? Why Don Lazzara, what does he have to do with everything, except his nephew-"

"If we try to take down only Knudsen, we would end up with all of Dvorak Security, the Frac mine mobsters, and Don Lazzara's men after us. Everything here is connected, Knudsen, Don Lazzara, the mine… we can't touch one without stirring the others. Eliot is right – we can't do four jobs at the same time - we can pull this off only if we find the center of gravity between everything that I counted. Find a way to destroy it so that it will pull all the others after it, when it, or he, falls."

She stared at him without reply and he couldn't blame her. Nate sounded like a lunatic to an untrained ear. Sometimes, even to those who were trained, he added to himself.

Instead of answering that, she sighed, reached somewhere behind her in the dark, and returned to the light with a muffin. What, they prepared for a fucking picnic? Though, this was more like a safari – the next thing he should expect was them trying to feed the wild life they chased, cornered and caught. He slowly pushed himself from the wheel, trying to decide what to do now.

Nate was still watching him – _watching_ him – and he knew why he searched his face so studiously, what answers he sought.

He returned his gaze, and gave one small nod.

For a moment, just for one second, he asked himself how much of their fight was intentional, and if Nate pushed it back in the apartment, forcing him to the edge more quickly than his two day deadline could… Yet, when Nate returned his nod, nothing on his face showed whether he was pleased or not, so he dismissed it. He was too paranoid.

It was time to finish this. He sighed. "If you don't mind, we could-"

"Forget it – you're not driving back," Nate shook his head. "Sophie will drive your car behind us, and you will rest, and pray that Betsy don't find out about this. Ever."

He pointed to the roof and the sound of munching.

"And about that," Nate added with a sigh, opening his door.

He eyed Lucille; four meters distance. Nate was close to offering him a hand, so he simply stood up. That was an old trick for small distances – to start and go before the slow brain decided if the body was able to perform the necessary steps or not. And it worked this time too.

He was in the corner behind driver's seat at the moment his brain told him, finally, that he couldn't walk, and he almost smiled – but that smile froze when he saw what, exactly, was covering Florence's head. She had _his_ beanie. Who knows where she found it, somewhere in the apartment, and used it in a hurry. He opened his mouth to say something about it, but she saw he was looking at the cap and she visibly stiffened, going into defensive mode in a single second. What the hell was with that woman and her hair, why was every innocent remark, even a glance, a deadly insult? He averted his eyes, sighed and said goodbye to his beanie. He should ask Sophie about it… neutrally and around the bush.

He glanced at Sophie, met her eyes watching this exchange, and quickly changed his mind.

Sophie whispered something to Florence, and she nodded in return.

"I'll stay here, Florence will drive the Challenger," the grifter smiled at him gently, not showing any intention of going to sit in the front seat.

He drew back from her piercing eyes as far as he could, and contemplated fainting.

Yet, she didn't try to talk to him at all, she just sat there leaving him alone, only offering company in case he wanted it. And they finally started, followed by the other car.

Nate was driving, Parker was destroying muffins beside him, and Hardison – again – tried to follow Betsy's orders, turning off everything that blinked. The hacker sat at the side table with the screens, sadly looking into their dead, dark gloom.

The half darkness was beautiful. For a change, nobody talked and he relaxed, letting himself be lulled by the driving and darkness, closing his eyes. Sitting on the metal floor could hardly be called resting, but even that helped.

He had a lot of things to think about.

He was sure he could stay awake the entire trip, but the next time he opened his eyes, the sounds of traffic surrounded them, not the woods anymore… and Nate was saying something. There was tension in his voice, and that stirred him from drifting away.

"Maybe she just lost us in a crowd, and she'll catch up," Hardison replied. "I'm pulling up the surveillance program again, and I'll tell you in a minute… yep, she's way back behind us. Just slow down."

For a minute Lucille was gently gliding through the traffic, and then Hardison spoke again.

"She stopped, the Challenger hasn't moved at all since I spotted her."

They all waited.

"Nope, this wasn't just a red light in traffic. She definitely stopped. Nate, turn back."

Lucille continued at the same speed, in the same direction for a few seconds.

"Nate?"

Instead of turning the van back, Nate stepped on the pedal and lurched forward, in the same direction. They all bowled over in the back, and Eliot barely kept himself from slamming his head into Hardison's table.

"Whoa! Thank you!" Hardison yelled. "What are you doing?"

A loud bang was the only answer for a few seconds; Nate slammed his fist into the dash. "She left the Challenger. Took a taxi," his words were cut through gritted teeth.

"What the hell… I'll track her phone. Jesus, people, I'll really glue the tracking devices all over you, you're-"

"No need to, I know where she's going," Nate said firmly, pressing the pedal even harder. "And I know why. I should've known, I should've predicted this after her questions!"

Eliot slowly got up. Parker gave him her seat in front without a word, and he sat, looking at Nate's profile and tightly pressed lips.

"What's going on?"

"We can only hope we can get there before her to stop her… Or she's dead."

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Florence followed Lucille until they reached the highway again, slowly increasing the distance, letting other cars slip between them, one by one. When they reached Boston it was even easier, but she kept herself in sight, not wanting to alarm Nate too early. From Lucille, higher than most vehicles, he could still see her way behind.

It was one thing to let them help her. It was completely different to let them go war with the Boston mafia because they got too deeply involved, so there was nothing else left for them to do if they wanted to stay alive. And basically, that was what was happening right now. Now, they had no other choice left.

Her first thought was the police, but she dismissed it at once. She couldn't explain hardly anything, she couldn't mention their burglary at the C4 building, Knudsen's mobsters in their corridor, the slaughterhouse, nothing. All of that would turn the attention of police to Leverage Inc, and that was almost as dangerous as the mobsters were for them. No, no police.

Running away also wasn't an option, they would still be targets. She had to find some way to stop this, completely, before they got themselves more deeply involved in the mess, and started dying, one by one.

She knew their actions would be dangerous, but only today when Eliot listed everything that was against them, she realized that they could pay much bigger price than anybody expected. Well, except Eliot; he seemed to know exactly how deadly Nate's decision was. And if their protector thought it was insane, a man who was trained to notice danger, that was it.

When he left the apartment she thought that put an end to their jobs, that he stopped Nate from further plans. Then she saw the relief in his eyes back in the woods when Nate said that he was working on all the plans at the same time. That meant something, something important – but from her point of view, it only meant they would start whatever they planned. And that he simply agreed to die with them – exactly as she feared, no other choices left - because that was the only outcome she could see, when she watched them. Only two of them could stay on their feet without trouble, for god's sake, and the one who was supposed to protect them from killers was half dead.

She left the Challenger when she saw an empty taxi, and before anyone in Lucille noticed she wasn't following them any more, she would be far away. Hardison was now the most dangerous of them. She turned her phone off, hoping he didn't put something on her clothes.

She gave the driver the address, leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes.

She was frightened. And she had less than ten minutes to think of what to say and how to say it.

When the taxi left her in front, she checked the escape routes first, trying to remember everything around the building. There was a taxi stop about four hundred meters down the street – the shortest way to get to it was through the parking lot with a few white armored vehicles with the dark green Dvo-Sec logo on them.

She pulled the beanie lower over her eyes, and went into the large, lit, busy lobby.

"Tell Mr. Knudsen that Florence McCoy is here and wants to see him," she said to a girl behind the desk, and smiled to a camera above the girl's head.

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Three men preceded Knudsen's arrival. One of them was the first one that tried to break into her apartment, who held Sophie. He was _smiling_ at her. When they came closer, she recognized one more – one of the Red Guards from the C4 building; she remembered how worried Eliot was when he studied them on the live feed. The killers. All of them were smiling at her, and fear raced up and down her spine. They took a stand, one by one, at the opposite wall of the lobby, and their eyes, strangely eager, followed her steps as she slowly walked away from them.

This was fucking surreal, she thought, watching Knudsen approaching her – watching the man who tried to kill her. If he felt the same, if he was startled by his victim casually coming to his doorstep, his face didn't show it. The polite businessman mask was firmly in place.

"Dear Mrs. McCoy!" Knudsen's face showed real delight – he spread his arms in a welcoming gesture. "I must say I'm honored and perplexed by your visit. It's so rare for famous authors to visit the small people who work for their security, and I'm grateful for that."

The words were pouring from his mouth in a smooth wave, absolutely honest. He was damn good. His smile, charming, sincere and even little embarrassed, was really reflecting in his pale eyes. If she didn't know better, she would surely be deceived.

"We are, what a coincidence, just testing a new scanner. You will do us the honor and be the first of our clients to test it?" He waved to his men and the Red Guard, blond, tall, with a boyish smile, stepped forward and swept them both. "We'll soon make it a part of the standard equipment," he continued when his man shook his head, telling him she wasn't wired.

She should've payed more attention when she listened to Sophie's conversation with him. _He was dangerous_. She put her hands in her pockets to hide the trembling. These things looked so easy when written.

"I wanted to talk with you in my office, but I assume you would feel more comfortable here, in the open lobby, enjoying the many people around you," Knudsen continued with a little nod. "I can tell you everything you want to know about your _security_," he paused. Smiled. "Which Dvorak Security provides for your company."

She nodded, answering his real message.

"You work hard, Mr. Knudsen, I couldn't not notice that," she said. "Your efforts, concerning my security, are well known to me, all of them. And I know how important that is for you."

"I'm glad we understand each other." He took a small step back and waved his hand gallantly. "Walk with me, around this secure, people-filled lobby, while we talk, will you?"

She took one long breath, invisible, she hoped, smiled at him with confidence, and followed him. She had to turn her back to the three goons and it felt awful, but they weren't alone. He simply couldn't kill her in front of all those people. Even a mafia-driven security company must have had some normal employees, who weren't involved in their nastier jobs.

"You have something, maybe some idea, how to further _improve_ your security, Mrs. McCoy?" he asked lightly, not watching her. His voice was quiet this time. "I have to say, I admire your move. It's really sad that due to exception-"

"Cut the crap, will you?" She stopped, and he had to stop walking too, and turn to her. His eyes swirled around this time, checking their surroundings. "What the hell do you think you're doing, and how do you think you will get away with murdering a famous author? Because of what? A crappy-" she broke off, remembering at the last second that she shouldn't tell him she knew about the Ford pickup keys, "Winslow's crappy recording about my show? Do you know how irrelevant that is to me? And do you really think I'm an idiot who would go whining to the police? You work in the movie and TV business for how long, and you still haven't learned the rules?"

"You're insinuating the strangest things," he said carefully.

"I'm not a danger to you – I don't give a flying fuck about Winslow, your business, your killers… all I want is for this to stop. I'll give you that USB, do with it what you want, it has no value to me. I won't go to police, you're safe. Going to police is the worst thing I can do, and the last – I don't need any scandals now, when I'm working on a new big project. That would ruin me."

He stayed silent, watching her.

"That's just a little hard for me to believe," he said finally.

"That's your problem. I'm not a fool. I have a sealed statement which will be opened in case of my suspicious death, that accuses you and Dvorak Security. So just stop. We both don't need trouble, and this situation is stupid. Why didn't you come and talk to me first, before you just decided to kill me? It would spare us all lots of trouble. And innocent people wouldn't be involved."

"I still don't know what you're trying to say, except I'm confused by those accusations," he said.

"Of course you don't," she smiled. "We understand each other. My offer, Mr. Knudsen: I don't hold grudges. I'm not interested in your business, and as far as I'm concerned, after this conversation, I'll delete you from my mind, just like that. As if nothing happened and we've never met. During the day you'll receive a small package with the USB. What can you give me in return?"

She tried not to hold her breath while he thought.

"Okay, I'll pretend and play this strange little game, as if it's real," he said, and she had to admire him avoiding saying anything suspicious – he wasn't just talking to her, at the same time he was talking to the police, lawyers, judge and jury, just in case. "Your offer really turns this situation into something new for me – something positive. As a gentleman first, I feel obliged to return the same. Though, pretending I've never met such a beautiful lady won't be the easiest thing for me," he widened his smile.

She lifted her chin and met his eyes.

"Be more specific," she said calmly.

"Although I don't understand why you think I tried to kill you, to ease your worries, that is not an option anymore. Your offer is, really, good enough to stop that. Is that specific enough?"

She stared at him.

He wasn't a bit unnerved. This went as if she had written his replies in advance – his agreement was too quick, too smooth, too… false. And yet, she was painfully aware how her speech, though it sounded powerful in her head, in the taxi, was weak and childish. If she came up with this dialogue for an episode, her own writers would send her to get them coffee and food while they tried to save it.

"Yes, it is," she said finally, because there was nothing else she could say.

Of course he wasn't unnerved, she just spared him a lot of troublesome searching. He would nod and agree to everything, smiling all the way, now that she was within his reach.

Sometimes – but only sometimes, unfortunately – she had to remind herself that writing a script, and living real life, had different set of laws. The real world didn't function on logic and reason. This man couldn't see the advantages of her offer, it wasn't in his mindset.

They'd walked slowly to the other end of the lobby, and were now ready to turn and go back. She glanced around her. This part was not covered by a camera. The only one she saw, looking over the receptionist to the main doors, had recorded his warm welcome to her. The rest of the conversation nobody heard. He would probably make the same show when he let her out, and the police would have proof she left the building alive, in a good mood, after a very pleasant conversation with the owner. He would be clean.

Three men were still leaning on the wall on the opposite side. But someone unfamiliar took the place of the blond Red Guard. He was gone.

She maybe, just maybe, had a chance to reach the taxi stop – they wouldn't risk killing her at their doorstep, not now that she'd came so close to them. They could allow themselves to give her a little distance.

"I will go now," she said evenly, hiding the clenching of her hands in her pockets. Turning her phone on seemed irrelevant now; she was in deep shit, and they would be late in tracking her, anyway.

"You can go freely," Knudsen smiled with the same, empty smile, escorting her back to the lobby. "If you want a tour through the building, we can arrange it for the next time." After that, the smile almost became real, but the thoughts behind it made it terrifying. She bit back a reply, watching the sudden turmoil behind reception desk – the girl was explaining something to two men in technician suits. "No, it's not in our system, it looks like it's smashed. Change it, that one covers the entire parking lot-" she turned to them and froze when she saw Knudsen. "Oh, it's nothing, Mr. Knudsen – just one camera out of function."

Something in her head shifted.

"I am soooo glad I found you here!" Sophie's voice now froze both her and Knudsen, and they turned to the doors in an identical move.

"Inspector Lohman!" This time, it took some effort to put a smile on Knudsen's face. "How can I help you?"

"This is not official," Sophie continued with that strange voice, but her smile was even stranger – she stared at Knudsen, eyes wide open and full of barely hidden admiration. "I was just passing by, and I thought, there's this fine young man, I might ask him to join me for a cup of coffee… are you busy?"

He glanced at her. "I… well, in fact, I'm right in the middle of something…" Florence could clearly see how he tried to concentrate on the possibly dangerous inspector while in the middle of an attempted murder, and his casual mask showed the first cracks.

"Of course, I understand." Sophie then looked at her, judging her with a frown as if she was a threat, but then her face beamed again. "Oh. My. God! Florence McCoy!" She stepped closer and took both her hands, shaking them. "I'm a huge fan of yours, I've never missed an episode of your show!"

"Thank you," Florence cleared her throat, feeling the earbud in her palm. "Thank you so much, Miss…"

"Lohman. Olivia Lohman." Sophie turned to Knudsen. "Some other time then? I'll call you," she eye-lashed him and took her hand. "I'm soooo glad I finally get a chance to know you – you must join me, I have soooo many questions to ask you…" her hand was firmly wrapped around her forearm, and Florence let her escort her to the door. She pulled the beanie down, using the move to put the earbud in her ear. She even managed to look at Knudsen with confused eyes before they both stepped out of the building.

"They are all around the building, in positions, waiting for you," Sophie's voice went normal, with a just a hint of hurry. "Go to the underground garage. Shake off my hand and push me away, turn around and go, quickly, to the parking lot. Then run down."

"The underground garage? It's a kill box, only one exit-" She pushed Sophie as told.

"Dark enough to hide you," Sophie nodded to the streets and lawns that surrounded them. She was right. Here, her every step was visible from hundreds of meters, there was no way she could avoid being seen.

Do what they tell you, without questions, she remembered her decision from before. She did what she was told and hurried in the given direction. The tall vans would provide good protection from sight, and the half darkness would give her a chance.

She stopped only a second to assess the situation. The garage was huge, clearly not only for Dvorak Security but for the other nearby office buildings too. It was just one, giant story underground, and for the first moment she couldn't see anything, while her eyes adjusted to the dark.

The lights were scarce, and shadows crept around everywhere.

Did they just send a blonde to hide from killers, in a basement? It was a good thing she wasn't in high heels. She didn't know if she should laugh or cry, or curse – but she entered the deeper shadows of the tall vehicles, listening to the silence surrounding her.

The armored vehicles blocked her sight, robust and bigger than normal vans and she couldn't see where to go.

"His men are already out, around the building." Nate's calm voice sounded in her ear. "They all have hoods over their usual clothes, it'd look like a gang robbery gone bad. They're armed, and they'll shoot without hesitation – we need a distraction to get you out of here, to pass between them. The garage gives only the chance of delaying them, every other direction is too open and without cover."

"What distraction? What can I do to-"

"Just keep walking. Try to hide and stay alive for the next ten minutes, while we work on getting you out of there."

So she took a deep breath, and did just that.

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Eliot and Nate took the central position from which they could keep an eye on the goons around the building, and reach the parking lot in time if needed. Parker had opened a parked car on the street for them, and they were both protected by the hood, while leaning over the engine.

Eliot let Nate do all the things that a pissed owner of a broke down car would do in this situation – pulling wires, opening the doors, grabbing things, hitting the bumpers in helpless rage. He put his elbows on the car, keeping his head in the shade of the hood. Watching everything around them. Preserving his strength.

He watched Knudsen's men in their positions all around the building. Too much open space all around, broad streets, no cover, nowhere to hide. They had perfect lines to shoot and they were already too far apart from each other. To get rid of them all, they needed more than three points of distraction at the same time. No way they could do it now. Open attack was a suicide.

He monitored Sophie's retreat, slow and unhappy, to the place they left Lucille.

Florence disappeared in the dark entrance of the underground garage.

Nate's plan was the only thing that could get her out of there alive.

And it was going well, for now. He could see Hardison and Parker at the other end of parking lot, engaged in a quick conversation. Parker was waving her car keys, and Hardison seemed to be explaining something, working on his tablet and pushing it in her face. They looked like a couple having a fight on their way to their car, and yet he knew Hardison was step by step hacking into their security feed.

The plan was going well, although it was clear that his role was absolutely minimized. Nate put an emphasis on speed and a secure retreat this time, keeping him in reserve.

They had arrived only three minutes ago and had time for precisely nothing – but he wasn't worried about _their_ part of it. "Something is wrong here, Nate," he said when the goons remained in position. At least one of them could see Florence turning to the parking lot, and even if no one saw her going into the garage, that one would alert all the others and tell them where she was. But they stayed in the open, holding their positions.

"I know. And I know what," Nate almost disappeared under the hood, making loud clangs with a key. "And Hardison will tell us exactly that, in about-"

"Tell you what?" Hardison said. "I just managed to access their cameras, and I'm turning them off as we speak. No time for an unsuspicious fake malfunction like I did to the first one – it's important they can't see shit, and what they're going to think about it isn't import- ah, damn."

"_Ah, damn_?" he asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep annoyance out of his voice.

"There were four cameras in the garage, and I killed them – but Knudsen sent men there already. The elevator camera. They went down from inside the building, that's why you didn't see anyone moving around."

"How many?"

"Five on this ride, but elevator immediately went up – maybe for the next round."

Nate stopped hitting the engine. He knew Nate was thinking about the time and the chances, sorting them out in his head. He needed more time for the choreography, for all their moves. The possibility of mistakes just shot through the roof. Because of the men getting too close to Florence, he would have to speed everything up, or even abort this plan and come up with something else. And every minute they spent here, the danger was growing bigger.

Eliot checked all the goons once more – they hadn't moved. "How much time do you need?" he asked Nate.

A few seconds of silence. Nate knew what he was asking.

"I said," he repeated. "How much time do you need?"

"I'll know only when I start," Parker said quietly, strangely hesitant. "But maybe fifteen minutes. No, _at least_ fifteen minutes."

He looked at her over the street and parking lot – they were close to the entrance of the garage by now – and saw them both just standing there, watching them.

There was no chance that Florence, no matter how well hidden, could escape those men searching through garage for fifteen minutes.

Nate nodded.

"Make it ten," he said. And started.


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

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It was good that the lights were weak and dim, Florence thought while entering another patch of darkness, trying to keep her eye – and ear – on the silhouettes and steps spread all over the garage in search of her. Yet, she would much more prefer more light; somehow, it seemed that bad things didn't happen in well lit places.

"Florence," she heard Eliot's voice through the earbud, but it sounded strangely low. "Don't scream."

"Okay," she whispered back, cautiously passing a car, keeping herself low. "I don't see why would I scream, anyway. That would only tell them where I am, and they would gather around me. You know, I'm _not_ stupid." It was good she had to whisper, that hid a treacherous tremble in her voice.

She only made two more steps before an arm wrapped around her waist and yanked her to the side, behind a van; the hand over her mouth stopped her scream that had started despite his warning.

"Don't. Scream," Eliot whispered in her ear, and she heard him in stereo, through the earbud too. She just nodded, trying to calm her hammering heart. He _really_ could've been more specific.

Two shadows moved a few meters in front of them, shadows with guns ready in their hands, but they were hidden from their sight.

She kept her breath until they disappeared.

He released her when they didn't hear their steps anymore. "Parker, two are heading in your direction," he said, keeping his voice even lower, giving her a sign to stay where she was.

"Saw them." Parker was whispering too. They obviously all were near people who could hear them. "Nate, first one is done, leave that car and go."

"How did you-?" Florence started and stopped.

"Not now." Eliot went to the back end of the van to check their route. She was surprised to see him walking at all, in Lucille he looked totally spent – but now under all the slow, careful moves she could see tension that was speeding him up. And there was a strange watchfulness in his eyes when he turned to her again. "Stay behind me all the time. If we're lucky, we'll get through the garage unnoticed."

"I killed all their other cameras," Hardison's voice jumped in. "But, you won't get lucky this time, most of them are heading to you already. Prepare for hide and seek while we do the rest of this. They are all armed, people. Please, don't get shot or stabbed or cut or killed or scratched or something, I _beg_ you – I don't want to be the one to tell Betsy that we all went out just half an hour after she left. You can faint, though – as long as there are no marks on your body, no new marks, or cuts or wounds or bruises or even a slight difference in skin tone that would show her you were exposed to the sun-"

"Hardison, shut up, I have to listen," Eliot whispered and the hacker went silent, with one troubled sigh that echoed for seconds.

"What's the plan?" she whispered, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice. His quick glance told her she wasn't very good at hiding it. He looked at her, judging her – her fear, not yet panic – and she barely kept herself from shifting.

"To keep you alive on this playground while we wait for them to get us out," he said a little softer. "The building is still surrounded and being watched, the goons are covering the entire perimeter. That's another ring we must pass."

So, not only goons in the garage, but also another group waiting for them outside, in the open? How the hell did they think… she took a deep breath and said as calmly as she could, "What _exactly_ are we waiting for?"

"Armored cars take a little more time, even for Parker," he said as if that explained it; it seemed that all of them shared that annoying habit. He closed his eyes, raising his hand to keep her quiet, and she snapped her mouth shut, cutting off the next question.

Even she heard the soft sound of shoes on cement, somewhere down on their left, in the deepest shadows. Only two rows of cars separated them from the man approaching, and she knew that that distance was nothing for a gun. Knudsen's men didn't have to come near Eliot, and risk being beaten, they could shoot them on sight. They only had to spot them and open fire – running was pointless.

Then another sound came, from the opposite side, behind them. They had nowhere to go. Fear clenched stronger. She tried not to show it.

"Are you angry enough?" Eliot asked if they had all the time in the world for chatting, as if enemies weren't closing in from both sides.

"Why?" She eyed him, uncertain, knowing that tone. Instead of an answer – which was the answer itself – he grinned and turned her towards the second incoming man. "Go get him. Hurry!"

Well, shit.

It wasn't as if she didn't know that she was only a decoy – she made a few similar scenes herself, and _much_ better than this one – yet all her heroines that needed saving always obeyed without thinking, trusting the other party completely. _That_ was the thing that troubled her. She couldn't trust a man who was unsteady on his feet, and unarmed. She slowed her steps to a lazy walk, giving him time to prepare for attack. He would need at least fifteen seconds, judging by his movement, and she _really_ didn't want to spend them waiting in front of a gun. She _really_ didn't want to depend on the attack of a man who went down because he was fucking _driving_.

Now she could see the shadow of her target, he was on the other side of one van. She took a deep breath and slowed even more, not wanting to jump in front of someone who would fire instantly, being a decoy or not. She wished her heartbeat could follow, and slow down too – she could feel it in her throat.

In fact, she didn't see why she should expose her entire body to it. Instead of walking in front of the killer, she reached her hand around the back side of the van, and waved.

There. She drew his attention to herself. Mission accomplished.

Knudsen's man, surprisingly, quietly cleared his throat.

She carefully peeked with one eye, knowing it was almost impossible to shoot that small a target.

Knudsen's man was lying on the floor. Eliot was standing over him. Waiting for her.

He shook his head. "That was, I don't know… a fucking _hurricane_. You give Flash a bad name."

"I was cautious," she thought it over. "Extremely."

A whisper trailed in. "In fact, when you mentioned Flash, I remembered-"

"Not now, Hardison. Parker?"

"Working on the second."

She moved back a step, to look around the van from where she came. She could feel they weren't alone here, and that made her heart beat in a frantic rhythm. Every instinct was yelling for her to start running as fast as she could, making her hands shake, drying out her mouth.

And the man behind her put his hands into his pockets, more relaxed now in the middle of this mess, than she had seen him from the beginning. There _was_ something strange about that combination of utter concentration and an easy smile. He still looked unsteady on his feet, yet his whole posture radiated compressed energy even when he swayed. And maybe he was just happy that he finally had pockets to put his hands into, she added morosely.

He came closer to her, watching over her head and above the cars, and once again his hand formed a warning. Without any other word, he grabbed her hand and pulled her after him, keeping the van as cover on their side. She had to quicken her steps to catch up, but he seemed to walk without a problem; he looked unsteady only when standing and not moving.

They avoided two more men, in a zigzag around them, with short breaks for waiting, listening and hiding. Eliot kept some sort of direction, going left whenever he could and the situation allowed, and she noticed they were in the same section of garage the entire time.

Breaking the silence didn't seem like such a good idea. The others were strangely silent too. There was no banter or talking, which they did without a problem when they were breaking into the C4 building. Maybe they weren't aware of it, but she knew the reason - he wasn't with them then, in the field. He was safe in the apartment, not among armed goons. If they didn't want to break his concentration, she surely wouldn't be the one to do it. Yet, this felt great; she finally read them, read something they didn't know they were revealing.

Just when she thought they might continue with this endlessly, when they passed the better part of one row, a loud yell from behind raised the alarm. She quickly turned around and saw one of them, raising his hand above his head, giving away their position to the others, telling them the exact part the garage.

"We could use that distraction now," she squeaked, keeping herself low. Eliot just continued for a few more meters, putting yet another van between them and the man who noticed them.

"Not gonna happen," his reply sounded just a little breathless. "_We_ are the distraction for them."

For what? Just great. She bit her lip, glancing around.

"Crawl under the van. Stay there," he said shortly, pushing her down in the darker shadows, as the first bullet came whistling through the air. It hit the van and ricocheted away from the impenetrable surface – she couldn't tell if that was good or bad for them.

She dived into the oil and dust on the cement. "Two more are running our way," she said when she saw distant feet in quick motion, but one pair ran in front of her eyes, and she heard hits and grunts. The van shook when a body was slammed into it, and she couldn't tell who was slamming whom; she searched all around her, trying to see more legs that could be a threat.

Finally, an unknown body fell only one meter away from her – she just started to pull herself out from under the van, when another pair of feet came quickly, and the sounds repeated.

This time, she noticed with worry, the fight lasted longer.

"The third one is done," Parker's voice reported, tense and quiet. "Just a few more minutes."

She had no idea what they were doing, but it looked like it wasn't finished yet, and the sounds of the fight continued – she couldn't simply wait to see the outcome. She wasn't fucking helpless. She rolled closer to the fight – getting oil all over her clothes along the way - and pulled herself out from under the van. One booted foot missed her head by inches and hit the metal. The owner was caught off balance, and she saw Eliot elbow him twice; the man finally started to fall, more clanging onto his opponent than trying to hit him. Eliot pushed him away; Florence saw he had his gun in his hands.

He looked like he needed to sit down, swaying and completely breathless, but unharmed.

Yet, there was no time for a time-out.

They both heard more steps running in their direction, but Eliot stood motionless for a second, staring at the gun. She couldn't believe her eyes when he pulled the magazine out, and threw the gun away.

"Why did you-" Her question died on her lips and became a scream when a shadow darted past her and slammed into Eliot with a vicious force that knocked him off his feet. She only caught a glimpse of the blond hair before they both disappeared behind the van in the dark. The Red Guard from the lobby.

"Florence, talk to me," Nate said, alarmed by her scream.

"Busy," she stuttered, hurtling forward, then stopping and turning back. She couldn't do anything bare-handed. She picked up the gun and magazine and hurried after them – she only lost four seconds – hoping she would get there in time for… for what? No idea. But she could shoot a warning shot. She could at least-

The blond guy was in a heap, on the ground. Eliot was in the middle of a fall – or getting up – with his back against the van, staring with unfocused eyes into the guy, as if not sure how he ended up on the floor. She saw that empty stare the first time they met, seconds before he crashed down. If he collapsed now… She ran to him. His knees buckled – yes, it was definitely a fall – yet he managed to stop the fall, reaching blindly with his left hand to the van.

"The gun," he whispered, and she quickly gave him the weapon, grateful he changed his mind.

"Don't move," he breathed, focusing. She opened her mouth to tell him he wasn't doing such a great job when he moved, when the gun came so close to her head that she almost felt the touch. She had no breath to scream again so she just turned around, just in time to see one man falling, hit directly in the face with the gun. Well, obviously there were many ways to shoot somebody with a gun, she thought bitterly. Throwing it was one of them.

When she turned to Eliot again, he was on his feet, but his left arm was still holding the van in a death grip, not letting it go.

He threw the gun with his right hand, she realized. His face was _white_.

"I can go to another row of vans, for a minute of two." She struggled for better control of her voice, but she only managed to whisper. "Draw a few of them after me, then make a circle and come back while you…I don't know… something," she finished, miserably failing at an encouraging smile.

He listened for a moment, looking over her head, then looked at her again. _Still not moving from the van_. She should ask him if he was able to walk at all, and she thought about how to form that question, while at the same time, giving Nate a report. Whatever they were doing, it wasn't more important than _this_.

"For the next half a minute we're not in imminent danger," he said slowly. Carefully. "Only these few saw where we were. The rest of them are still sneaking around. Not near our row."

"What can I do?" she cleared her throat, and her voice grew stronger. "How much time do you need? And what do you want me to do as a distraction? I can guide them after me – if they come running to you, and you are waiting, prepared, you can pile them, one after another." He raised his eyebrows. Great, now he would think she was thinking he was some killing machine. "Or not, if you had enough and don't feel like fighting anymore – when in need, I can fight, too. There's nothing wrong with fighting and defending, or even attacking-"

"Florence…"

"What?"

"Stop scaring me."

She gasped. A barely audible soft chuckle sounded like Hardison, but she muted it, staring at Eliot. Glaring at him sounded like a great idea, and she tried, tried really hard, but that gasp broke the pressure mounting in her chest, and she couldn't stop the grin.

"That's better," he nodded, watchfulness subsiding from his eyes with a quick smile. "Rested enough? Can you continue or do you need more time?" The smile was still there, but the concentration was too, and she knew how attentive his listening was.

"Ready when you are – we can collect more guns," she turned around to see which way they should take, but mostly to give him more time to regain balance – but she didn't have to bother with that. She barely made one step when he pulled her back and stopped her, just one step behind her.

"Unless I tell you, never go before me," he grabbed her hand and drew her after him again, going around the van. They weren't going as fast as before, and he carefully chose every bit of cover he could find. This time he was dragging her with his right hand, she noticed, to have the left ready for attack, and she adjusted her steps to avoid any need to pull her harder.

That helped when he stumbled, she was near.

He shook his head and they both stopped, waiting for the dizziness to pass. "Hardison? How long?" When he spoke, she hoped the others would notice the weariness of his voice, and hurry this up.

"She just finished the fourth one, we are in position." The hacker's voice was tense but not alarmed, so she relaxed a bit. "Fifth one in the third row from the elevator."

Eliot changed direction, going left, and Florence adjusted her steps again, not daring to ask anything. They passed four vans. The fifth one had the engine running.

"You drive." Another whisper; he wasn't able to breathe and talk at the same time.

She climbed up into the van and waited for him, quickly going over the controls; almost the same as in Lucille, she would manage. When Eliot closed the door after him, she noticed the key wasn't in ignition. Just a set of wires.

"We're set, Nate."

"Wait for Parker – four seconds."

Florence thought she would join them in the van, but when the four seconds passed a van flashed in front of them, going from the left to the right. She heard yelling, two gunshots, running and the slamming of car doors all around them.

"Okay, people, let's get the hell out of here. Florence, step on it. Now."

She started, following Parker who vanished in seconds; two more similar vans moved at the same time, from different parts of the place. In less than ten seconds four identical armored Dvorak Security vehicles left their garage.

Bright daylight hit her eyes as her van emerged on the ground level.

She looked behind her – the chase was after them, but Knudsen's men, both in vans and smaller cars, didn't know who to follow. The four vans went in different directions.

And they couldn't shoot, she realized just then. Neither the men in pursuit, nor the men that were covering the building. They were protected by armor.

"They can corner you and make you stop," Nate said as if continuing her thoughts. "Keeping driving for a few more minutes, until we see who has the biggest tail." He was driving too, she heard the exact same engine sound as hers.

"Wooohooo!" A loud yell came from the earbud at the same second a Dvorak Security van, faster than lighting, flashed before her eyes going from right to left, and disappeared in a side street. Florence stepped on the brakes to avoid the two vans and three cars that followed it.

"Parker, try not to kill anybody!" Eliot growled from her right. "Florence, follow them. Chase Parker, that way we'll all stay close."

Florence followed, and for a few minutes the row of armored vans and cars moved like a snake after Parker who made impossible turns. The other cars on the streets avoided them, horns were echoing all around them, and the chaos was growing with every second that passed.

_BREAKING NEWS: 'Mentally disturbed TV writer snapped after the cancellation of her show, and wreaked havoc on the peaceful streets of Boston, stealing armored vehicle from a well known and respectable security agency. Police surrounded her, released the collapsed hostage, and took her down with nets and rubber bullets. She is now held in the Psychiatric Institute for mentally disturbed criminals, under heavy drugs.'_

She chuckled, keeping the hysteria under control, barely. She could feel Eliot watching her, but she couldn't come up with anything normal, nothing that would sound sane.

"Hardison, you're the first to leave the van," Nate said. "Stop at the next junction when you see Lucille, Sophie's waiting."

"'Bout time." The hacker sounded shaken. "Nobody asked me if I was able to drive this thing, y'know? Driving can hardly be called sensory deprivation."

Florence continued to follow the chase, but Parker left them all far behind her, disappearing from everyone's sight.

"I left the van in the middle of the intersection, blocking everything," Hardison reported after a few minutes. "Two of Knudsen's cars are stuck in the line behind it, they can't get out."

"Good. Florence, you're next, get ready," Nate continued. "Slow down a little and put some distance between those in front of you."

She did as told, increasing the distance, until she saw Lucille maneuvering through the left lane and catching up with her. They both stopped when the red light hit, and Nate opened the side door for them.

Eliot had to go around the van to reach Lucille, and she waited for him, keeping an eye on his steps. The light was still red when Nate closed the door behind them, and they all could see Parker's van, this time speeding through the intersection from left to right.

"Parker, enough. Leave it – block the biggest intersection you can find, and wait for us. We'll follow you."

"But I can-"

"I know. Next time, though."

They managed to escape from the street full of pissed off drivers at the last moment, before another wave of cars came and got stuck, adding to the utter chaos.

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Eliot seriously contemplated bringing a pillow into his corner behind the driver's seat, and making it standard equipment. He thought better of it when Florence almost took his place for herself, changing her mind at the last moment; a pillow would be an invitation for everybody.

She sat in a chair facing the table.

Nate was silent, Sophie and Hardison were engaged in quiet conversation while she drove – Hardison demonstratively keeping his head covered with Sophie's scarf, letting her coo over him and his headache - and Parker was busy with the muffins. Florence left his Challenger just a few minutes away from the place they gathered in Lucille – and he was sure Nate coordinated their driving the security vehicles in that direction, to save time - so Nate let Parker get out and drive it home. Strictly behind Lucille, no speeding.

He could finally close his eyes and think.

The concentration he needed to perform that little dance in the garage – something he had usually been able to do with his eyes closed and having fun – wasn't something he could switch on and off as he wanted. It still held him, tensing his every muscle. He couldn't relax, and he sat stiff as a board, breathing in slow, but too shallow breaths.

Nah, even the pillow wouldn't help – he had to wait for it to pass. It would let go when they arrived in the apartment, and there he could expect some rest. A complete shutdown was more like it. It was inevitable after all the crazy things he did today.

Florence changed chairs.

He glanced at her while she studied Hardison's things on the table. He forced himself to close his eyes and keep his mind from over analyzing everything around him. He had yet to analyze his moves and reactions in the garage. Especially the reactions; the moves were mostly automatic. He counted four different mistakes while he was doing them, and seven more after he made them, and that wasn't-

Florence took another chair, moving to the back of the van.

He stopped an irate sigh and paid attention, immediately catching what was wrong.

Nate was silent.

And he was sure, though he couldn't see it, that his eyes were following Florence all over the van in the rear view mirror.

He tried to think, _again_, but this time he changed tactics, left the garage, and started evaluating all the ways he could use to make Nate and Sophie search for the best organic food coloring and buy it the next time they went out.

She _did_ do a stupid thing, though. Nate had to talk to her, and make sure she never –

Florence left the last chair, ducked under the sight line from the front end, and sat on the floor beside him.

_Goodbye, concentration and analysis._

She must've been totally distressed when she sat beside the one who scared her five times a day, just to avoid Nate. Though, he had to admit, when Nate looked pissed off, he was scary as hell.

Her maneuver was futile. Nate left the front, leaving Sophie and Hardison, and came to them. For a moment he just watched them from above – and Eliot was sure they were lucky that Hardison couldn't see the amount of dust and oil they both got all over Lucille – but then, instead of sitting in a chair, Nate sat in front of them. On the floor. Eliot was pretty certain that he waited until Florence decided to seek shelter here, that was a sign her stress was at the level he wanted it to be.

He didn't look pissed off. Just sharp and alert… but it wasn't any less scary. His gaze was steady on her, almost fixed.

"What did he say?" Nate asked calmly.

She swallowed. "That my offer isn't bad, and he agreed to stop this. I told him I won't go to the police, that I'll give him the USB, and… look, I know it sounds stupid, but I had to try it!"

"Yes, you did," he agreed lightly. "But not like this. Not without us."

Eliot glanced sideways at her when she didn't reply. And just as he knew his opponents' next moves before they were even aware of them, he knew she barely resisted pulling up her knees and hugging her shins.

"Do you remember what Eliot had told you about Knudsen?" Nate went on. "'They wouldn't climb so high in their ranks if they weren't eliminating any _possibility_ of a screw up along the way.' When you're a threat to the mob, there's no bargaining for your life – you're a liability and you have to be eliminated. They're protecting themselves. Knudsen, even if he really wanted to spare you, couldn't do it, couldn't risk it."

"My offer was logical and good for both sides," she said quietly. "I counted on that, that he would think like a businessman and see the benefit for him. He would have the USB, and he could stop trying to kill me – every attempt could lead police closer to him. I thought he was aware of that, and when I said I had no intentions of involving police-"

Nate raised his hand to stop her. "Florence, there is only one solution for a businessman like Knudsen. Dealing with the problem efficiently. He simply can't risk you changing your mind about police in four months."

"Well, now I know that," she sighed. "I'm not sorry I tried; now that that possibility has been dismissed, I know where I stand. It's just…" she paused, choosing her words. "I'm sorry you had to come for me… you had to fight, and steal, and…" her words ended in silence.

Nate rubbed his chin, thoughtfully, but said nothing.

Eliot raised his knee and rested his left arm on it. Nate just glanced at him for one second. _No, this isn't over_. Okay, he agreed she had to hear all of it, but Nate could do it in the apartment where they could have a little privacy. She didn't have to be lectured in front of _him_, of all people.

"There's no way out of this for us," Nate finally replied to the problem that bothered her the most, obviously, and which she left unspoken. She twitched.

Nate tilted his head, reading her every breath. "There's nothing you can do to stop it, so just accept that as the current situation. We shall solve it." His voice became flat and strangely bleak and Eliot frowned. "But, you can do one thing, Florence… you can get us all killed. You're our client, and we need to trust you. Our usual clients were never this close. Our clients never set foot in my apartment, not even when they were working with us and helping us. That would be too dangerous. You are here, now, with us, in something that became _our_ job – and that means our rules. Do you understand that?"

"Completely," she whispered only that, but she didn't avert her eyes from Nate. Eliot darted him a clear look – stop it _now_, that's enough – but Nate, though he was aware of it, just smiled a smile that matched Betsy's creepiest calm smiles.

"You're not a part of the team, and you'll never be. I trust them when they go to do something that they think ought to be done, because I know them, it's their job. But when a client does the same, it's a disaster. You don't know what you're doing, and we can all die because of that. From now on, Florence, you do only what we tell you to do – nothing more and nothing less. This situation is already too deadly, and one loose cannon, with its own ideas, could end us. I won't allow that."

Okay, this was way too much. He could _hear_ the blood draining from her face. She did something stupid, but she didn't go to Knudsen when she thought she was the only target - she did that because of them, when she realized they were going to war against all of them. And Nate knew that well, too, so what was the point of this bitching-

"I think she just used all her jokers," he said before he could think if it was wise to jump in. "Even if she wants, there's nothing left for her to do, so we can end this chapter." He smiled while saying that, a neutral smile that should lift her up, and bring Nate down, at the same time.

They both looked at him – Nate with raised eyebrows, Florence with genuine surprise.

"What? You don't have any new ideas, right?" he asked her. She just shook her head.

"And if you do, you will come to us first?" Nate asked. She nodded.

"Okay, that settles pretty much everything." Nate's voice finally returned to a normal tone. "As long as you remember that this is not an episode of your show, and that the actors don't play the words you wrote for them, we're good." He got up, but stayed for a second more, watching her. "It takes guts to go to talk to your killer," he smiled. Then he turned around and went to sit with Hardison and Sophie.

"But it's stupid nevertheless," Eliot added gruffly, not wanting her to feel encouraged.

She hunched down when Nate disappeared, but she glanced at him. "Are you playing good cop, bad cop on me?"

"A cop?" he said. "No need for insults."

"Because if you are, you're switching sides too fast – there are rules about that."

He said nothing, and she did what he thought she would do earlier, she brought her legs up and rested her head on her knees. She didn't want to reveal how miserable she was in front of Nate – but she clearly felt it was okay to show that to him. And what the hell was that? Progress, or deterioration? He hid his smile when he thought about the ultimate test of that; if he asked her about his beanie, and the state of her hair, he would surely know.

Just for a second, a suspicion hit him – no, paranoia at its best – Nate's timing of this lecture was... He sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Over analyzing was a boring and persistent bitch, he needed to stop doing that. Just as he was watching her now, seeing much more than he wanted to see, than was smart for him to see – her fear, her guilt, her… courage.

"I did the same," he said suddenly, surprising himself more than her. "I went to talk with… with a man in charge, when they tried to kill us. Chileans. And I know what it takes to do that."

"What did you tell him?" she whispered.

_Oh shit_. It was good his concentration was still here, in traces – he quickly pulled on every reserve he had. "N... nothing important." He leveled his breathing and smiled. _No sounds, no gunshots around them, just the engine_. Her eyes were attentive but she wasn't pressing. No, she _knew_ she mustn't press him. Fuck, she clearly found out more than she was showing. "We talked about the situation from different aspects," he continued with effort. "Until there was nothing left to say, and they came to get me out." He put his hands into his pockets before she could look at them.

She said nothing, waiting, but he turned his head in front of him. He said more than was clever. Clever for him. For this day. For his decisions.

The silence was significantly longer this time, yet it wasn't uncomfortable.

She lowered her head again and muttered something unintelligible.

"What?" he asked, taking care that his voice sounded normal.

"I said," she lifted her head. "That I feel like a busted truant. Collected, put into the van, now driven home."

For the first moment he was just grateful because she changed the subject, though it showed that she knew it was a good thing to do, so maybe even why. Then he realized something more. That was a part of her relaxing with him – he had been the first one collected, she only followed.

"You should change your name from Leverage to Hotel California," she continued, trying to smile, but there was, again, that damn unhappy twist.

"Why?"

"You can check out any time you like," her voice became a whisper, "but you can never leave."

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	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

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"Uh–oh."

Without opening his eyes, Eliot figured out that it wasn't the word that woke him up, not even the tone of Parker's voice, full of suppressed panic. It was a tickling on his face, the light touch of something that momentarily reminded him of the smell when he woke up in the Challenger – warm soil. Without vanilla.

Soil.

"I just came to wake you up," Parker quickly continued. "You said three hours, right?"

He opened his eyes to face Parker who was recklessly hovering over him, keeping herself between him and shelf that shielded his bed from view of the dining table.

When they returned, he had put George on the top of it.

"Move." He said only that, and Parker chewed on her lip, thinking.

"Okay," she shrugged. "I was going to bed, anyway."

She moved away, letting him see Orion perched on the shelf by George. Someone naïve would think they were buddies, both of them looking at him from above. But he had soil in his hair and on his face.

This was a clear declaration of war. A glove in his face.

Orion made an almost chirping sound.

He was too tired for this shit. He rubbed his forehead, trying to get it together; Parker had interrupted into something very strange. No screams, dead people and gunshots this time – he was in the middle of staring in consternation at Matio Tapia, who was sitting in his passenger seat, humming and voting on his phone. For Supernatural, that treacherous bastard. He knew that driving the Challenger would trigger something unpleasant, but this was _weird_.

It was a good feeling to wake up without his heart hammering, though. It was even better that he finally managed to intervene in the nightmares, reminding himself of the work that should be done.

Three hours of sleep and rest should be enough. When they arrived at the apartment, Sophie even managed to make him eat before resting – and it was one incredibly cruel use of blackmail. He suspected she let out a little Annie Croy – only that woman could come up with the idea of telling Parker how to count the calories necessary for a convalescing man, if he didn't eat. Only she could know that Betsy's threats weren't working on him, only on Parker and Hardison. And when he imagined Parker, concentrated on counting his every bite, all day long… he gave up all fight and went to eat, without any word of protest.

Sophie was kind enough not to reveal her methods when Nate raised his eyebrows at his quick surrender.

He got up, slowly. Every damn joint in his body ached. And muscles. And hair. And thoughts, and blinking, and breathing, and…

Raising his arms to take the cat wasn't as joyful as one would think. He was prepared for a fight, hissing and scratching, and he had no idea what to do if that happened, but Orion let him pick him up without arguing.

"Never, ever again!" Eliot tapped the cat's nose, pointing at the soil.

Orion looked at George.

George returned the cold stare.

Orion flinched.

"See? Don't mess with him. He might look gentle, all green and innocent, but you'll find yourself half eaten one morning, and you'll have no idea how. Don't tell me later I didn't warn you. George is _evil_."

"Oh," Florence said from the dining table, where she and Nate sat, going through papers. "So the plant is George! I thought…"

"And what else could be George?" he asked, trying to ignore Nate's pained expression. Nate, in the last couple of days, started to have very strange facial expressions whenever George was in question. _Bastard was obviously Team Orion_.

"That strange painting on the wall?" Florence said carefully. He restrained himself from looking at Harlan Leverage III. One of the rare good things about him being in this apartment, was his bed positioned right under that monstrosity, so he couldn't see it above his head.

"Long story," he said shortly, and brought the cat to them. "Sleazy little bastard," he handed him to Florence. "Talk to him. _Again_. This time be convincing and authoritative."

"You haven't had a cat, ever, right?" she sighed, cuddling the cat. Orion made himself comfortable in her arms, watching Eliot from the impenetrable fortress that protected him. "You're not a cat person. Only a complete ignorant would think that you can go make an 'convincing and authoritative' speech to a cat."

"Try threats," he said. He looked over the room – Parker was in her bed, thank God. A soft clicking without any visible cause told him that Hardison, hidden from everybody by the sofa backrest, continued to work on his tablet, but he said nothing. The post-action adrenalin was ebbing slowly, he needed more time to relax and rest. "Where's Sophie?"

"Went home," Nate said. "Btw, Betsy called while you were sleeping… Hardison? Can you play it?"

In a second, all six screens were lit with the video of a live report from the streets of Boston. The mess they made, from a few different angles. Dvorak Security vans all over the intersections, blocking traffic, pissed off drivers, and a lynch mob gathering around them.

"Hell hath no fury like driver jammed," Nate smiled lightly. "Knudsen had a lot explaining to do. Apparently teenagers managed to break into _armored security vehicles_. Poor man had to publicly say that his company sucks – and the comments all over the web are hilarious. He is a joke. Unfortunately, one traffic camera caught a glimpse of a handsome, young black man leaving a van-"

Muttering came from the couch. "T's not my fault, I couldn't see it."

"-not enough for real facial recognition, but enough for someone who knows him to recognize him and reach for the phone."

"Shit," Eliot squinted. "Betsy saw the report?"

Nate darted him one long, long look. "I said all three of you were resting now, so she didn't have to come here, you were all unharmed. We talked for half an hour."

Okay, maybe that pained expression wasn't only because of George.

"She won't call again, right?" he asked carefully.

"Nope, I said you'll all sleep until morning. She _strongly_ recommended that. Why are you standing?"

"Facebook," he said, after he tasted the word first, trying to erase all the disdain he felt. In spite of his efforts, it came out as if he spat it on the floor.

"Don't touch your crops," came from the sofa. "It's a minefield. Touch just one pumpkin, and she'll know you're awake. And _I_ am not answering any calls."

"And why are you not sleeping?" he asked the hacker. Instead of an answer, the screens changed to a facial recognition program, with the face of Goon A from the corridor recording. The program was still searching for him, and the faces were changing fast.

"Quality is poor, and it will take some time," the invisible Hardison continued. "But I have nothing better, and we have to know who he is. He is very high in his organization, but, he's not listed in Dvorak Security's employee lists, no records of him whatsoever."

He looked at the blurry picture and his ordinary features – yes, he was a trusted killer, a man in charge. A very good one. "Try discharged police officers first," he said. "That will narrow your search."

"Why?"

"He had a very distinctive stare."

"You gotta be kidding me – a stare?"

"The first assessment of the opponent, Hardison. I remember our first encounter here. Cops first search your face, quickly scanning through the Wanted lists in their heads – it's an instinct. He did that when he turned to me, all by the book. He had at least twenty years on the force. After that they look further, sorting you into dangerous/non dangerous groups. The Mexican cartel will look at your boots first, to see what sort of knife you're carrying – they're not interested in your face. Russians are-"

"Okay, okay, I got it. Face first. Police officer. I'm on it."

"Why does it take so long?" Florence asked, watching the changing faces.

"Because shows have to show the results in the same episode." This time, Hardison's voice was colored with a smile. "Real time searches take days. The only show that ever, ever, showed the entire length of a facial recognition search was NCIS, when Gibbs tried to find Ari – but it was only because they wanted to show his obsession, and not the real deal."

Eliot muted Hardison who continued to explain all the parameters of it, watching first Florence and Nate – they sat relaxed, there was no tension between them. Then he looked around again, at the soft light of late afternoon sun that was coloring everything in warm yellow.

"Nate. Lower all the blinds."

That stopped Hardison's explanation.

Nate got up. "That won't stop the bullets."

"But it will block their sight lines. We have nothing better for now."

Nate just nodded and went to do it.

Florence sighed. "What are you talking about?"

"Eliot said that Knudsen will, probably, attack tomorrow, again," Nate said from the window. "Yet, in the meantime, you talked to him, and managed to escape a bunch of his killers, with help. You did an interview in front of his sand excavation camp. We humiliated him in front of all of Boston today, as a bonus. That can speed along his plan, and he might attack sooner – tonight. Or during the night. Of course, he can delay everything even more, letting us wait and fear for days."

"When we talked, I let him think I have no idea what's on the recording I have – he thinks I think it's about Winslow's shows and the bribe. I don't know that it's something suspicious with that Ford pickup that he owns, so I don't know how to use it." Florence stopped, blinked once, then continued, "In fact, I really don't know how to use it. Do you?"

"Maybe," Nate shot her a sideways glance. She didn't notice it, but Eliot knew that Nate had to stop himself from mentioning how useful it would be if they had that entire conversation recorded.

"Sophie's Inspector Lohman alias is also on very shaky ground-" Nate went on.

"It isn't," Hardison's voice trailed in. "I just finished putting her data in all the relevant DNR documents. I did it as soon as you told us about her first visit to Knudsen, but now I straightened it up with more info, just in case. Olivia Lohman is alive, real, and solid." The hacker looked at them over the backrest, with one eye. "Some things ain't gonna do themselves," he added with a grin. "And some things can't wait."

"Like Facebook," Eliot sighed and turned around, going to bed. He'd turned his laptop on before he went to sleep, and that shit was waiting for him. "You don't have to watch the results on the big screens?" he asked Hardison. "Put episodes on it, quietly."

"Do you need comments?" Florence asked.

"If you're not too busy with articles."

She brought her laptop with her, sitting by his side as they did before, but he couldn't start watching the episodes right away.

He needed only one glance at the posts in the group to see the mess.

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It took almost two hours to go through all the posts, read all the comments, and see what happened. Supernatural and Castle took a solid lead, they were third and falling behind, and everybody was discouraged, pissed off and growling – ergo, drama.

At least nobody was screaming.

They were divided into two groups, one bitching about the others not voting, the other group bitching about the pressure that was being put on them, and guess what, nobody had voted for hours.

Their opponents – their friends on the other side – had taken a solid lead, and it seemed that catching up with them was almost impossible.

The polls they were voting in were on some website called SpoiledTV, and he liked that better than the PVA voting. Here, the votes were visible, he could see the numbers changing. PVA voting was anonymous, and no results were displayed, they were voting blindly.

He stared at the screen. Blindly.

What the hell was the point of all this? Even a victory wouldn't save her show. It might help, but there was also a possibility that no one would pay any attention to the internet polls, no matter how good and famous they were. The suspicion that Nate had pushed him into this only to get him together grew stronger again. He couldn't see what, exactly, he could do here, with these fans.

For now, they weren't hindering anything Nate did, because Nate didn't do nothing yet. At least that was useful. But they didn't need him on that, occupied with voting, wasting his time.

"What's wrong?" Florence quietly asked. He peeked at her laptop – the blue background was buzzing with small messages, all full of #SaveM7. It seemed that she managed to keep the panic roaring. The articles she'd written must've helped with that, too.

And he was stuck with a bunch of sulking women. He had no idea what to do with them.

"We're losing ground, and the tension is rising. Nothing to worry about. For now."

"I'll tweet for help," she sighed. He watched her changing accounts, sending messages, replying, spreading them all over the net, but he pulled himself out of it – he had his own shit to solve.

After reading the most important comments again, he jumped into a conversation. Choosing sides would be stupid, he needed them all together, not half of them against him – _in what, dammit_ – so he made a neutral comment full of compliments to both sides. They all needed understanding and acknowledgment of their efforts, and he gave it galore.

Being charming in written form was much harder than in person. It sucked, to be precise, and he had to chose every word very carefully, avoiding any possible misconceptions.

By now, he was able to add characters to the names, and he sorted them into groups: loud ones, fighters, troublemakers, artistic (pictures), artistic (writing), funny ones, silent, serious. For now, it seemed that the majority of every group liked him – their comments were positive and friendly. He was accepted, and this voting, no matter how short it really was, was bonding people quickly. It seemed that nobody found his late coming or recent account activation suspicious, and they behaved as if he'd been with them much longer.

He continued to write comments, calming the situation down; they'd all had enough of the quarrel already, because they all accepted that tone and continued with him. After an hour, he was remembered as a nice, clever guy 'who understands women'.

Fighting in garages left bruises, but he would rather fight for an hour without pause, than _type_. Not only did he have to grift en masse, he had to do it via the net… he reminded himself that Florence could hear him gritting his teeth, judging by her glances. But it was too late.

"You know, if you hate this so much, you don't have to do it," she stated carefully.

And what to say to that? Explain to her that 'to have to' was impossible to explain? He didn't have to do anything. And he did. Damn.

Snapping at her would do no good; she was already distressed more than she deserved to be. He had just entertained a bunch of women, he could continue to do that with the one that needed it more than them.

"I'm just… learning new things," he forced himself to smile. It wasn't as hard as he thought it would be. "For example, I just learned, the hard way, that _lol_ doesn't mean the laughing out loud that everybody thinks."

"But it does."

"Nope. They ain't using it that way. They are using it instead of _heh. _When somebody comments with 'Lol, you're right', it doesn't mean they are dying of laughter. They said: Heh, you're right. It's also used as a sign that said words shouldn't be taken seriously, or as an insult. _You're an idiot, lol_." He typed another comment, stopping the sigh on time. "It took me some time, full of wondering what the hell was so hilarious about my comments… good thing I didn't ask, or go editing them all."

He cast a sideways glance – yep, the smile was emerging.

"Though, I'm still confused – few of them kept yelling at me, and two slapped me," he continued lightly.

Her eyebrows went up. "What have you done?"

"Nothing. I said that if all of us stopped commenting, and went voting, we could make a steady income of votes, and I calculated exactly how much, in the next ten hours. I got: SLAP as a reply. Yelling _and_ slapping, at the same time. I'm still trying to figure that one out." He wasn't – he'd googled the damn abbreviation, as he had done with all the confusing words. But she bowed her head to hide a giggle that escaped.

"It wasn't a slap." Her face was now lit with the smile. "It's a SLAP - Sounds Like A Plan. It seems you're gaining their trust. They're listening to what you say."

"Small steps."

"And you're good at making people do what you want them to do," she went on, her eyes very cautious now.

He knew what info she was fishing for. She couldn't understand this situation without understanding them first – and to understand them, she needed to know about That Night, which was still very present in everything they did. Just for a moment, he tried to see how he would feel if he was kept in the dark, clueless, only being given basic info about doings very important to his life, and he knew her frustration and fear. It was very strange that she trusted them at all, but Sophie was a major factor in that.

"You said you would tell me who drugged you," she said, taking his silence as a cue to continue.

But he couldn't tell her. Not now. He had to literally freeze his motions to not to look towards the kitchen, to keep watching her with the same neutral, calm expression.

"Tomorrow," he said shortly. He should've told her he wouldn't talk about it, ever, and he still didn't know why he didn't do that – perhaps he knew it would be inevitable at some point. It was better to tell her something, than to let her search by herself. She could dig too deep, and find out much more than she needed to know.

His walls still surrounded him, and though he started bringing them down, he still had much work to do. Someone climbing them, trying to peek over them, wasn't helping. Smashing the wall down, might mean smashing down the climber, too.

This 'client-in-the-apartment thing' sucked, with or without a murderous cat.

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Watching the episodes helped to silence the awful clicky-clicky-clicky of his voting, a sound that had been driving him nuts for hours.

Five episodes later, with a head full of Florence's comments, jokes and background stories, he still managed to think about the usefulness of this Facebook crap. Without any result.

Parker was still out; wounded leg and hangover or not, there was something strange about her sleeping rhythm, but he couldn't nail it down yet. Hardison continued to work on Don Lazzara, which meant he would be out the whole night when he finally went to sleep.

While voting in one window, he kept himself engaged in a few different conversations in the group. One of them was one pretty good discussion about fighting styles – but there was one about an issue that seemed to trouble all of them: did Buck bleach his hair to have a few lighter wisps, or it was _au naturel?_

His despair reached the highest level possible.

Click. Click. Click.

Florence started to rub her eyes more frequently, and she had trouble concentrating on her bluish messages. He made a pause in watching episodes, said his head hurt. They were all tired, and they were all waiting to finish their work to go to sleep. Except him – he was waiting for them to go to sleep. He needed peace, not sleep.

"I have him," Hardison voice jumped in at the moment when he realized that he would have to express some _opinion_ on Buck's hair.

"Goon A, ladies and gentleman." The hacker continued, slowly, stiffly, dragging himself up from the sofa. He found one good, clear picture and displayed it on the screens. "His name is Wayne Matthias Bauman, former State Police officer. You were right. Discharged after investigations."

"Goon A sounds simpler," he said, eyeing the guy. He looked younger than forty there, but still completely normal… yet, his competence wasn't doubtful.

"Hi, Patrick." They all turned at the sound of Nate's voice from the dining table.

He held his phone, and he just smiled at them while waiting for Bonnano to reply. "Something came to my mind – totally not connected with anything we're working on – but you don't have an informant, or undercover cop in Don Lazzara's mob, or Knudsen's part of it, do you? Why? So you _do_ have someone? It figures…. just for the sake of my mental health, and for the sake of your informant's health in general… it isn't, by any chance, a guy named Wayne Matthias Bauman? No? Great, thank you. That's a relief. By the way, Coddington is still here seeing his therapist, or – ah, went to Portland? Good to him. Say hi to him from Leverage Consulting and Associates, will you?" Nate smirked and ended the call, nodding to Hardison. "I had to check. This guy was accused of collaborating with the mob, but they couldn't prove it – discharge was the best option. Are you done with that, now?"

"I still have to check all the articles and see which ones have been pulled down, and put them up again, and check the responses, and-"

"Tomorrow. I'll need you tomorrow to go out with Sophie and me – without _sensory deprivation_ you won't be able to do it."

"I would, I'm much better," Hardison said, but it was clear how tired he was. "Okay, I'll sleep now." He turned off the search results, bringing their episodes back on the screens, and went to crash into his bed. Eliot just smiled when he saw him quickly tucking Parker into the bed by his.

"I'll go upstairs, if you don't need me." Nate leaned on the shelf, watching him and Florence working. He had a bunch of papers in his hands. "Any progress with the fans?"

That question needed an hour reply – what, to tell him about Buck's bleached streaks? - so he just grumbled, "No."

"Can you ask if any of them are located in Boston? We might need concrete help tomorrow."

"I know that one admin is definitely from Boston, she mentioned that pitchforks and torches are ready in her backyard. Ten of them are in Boston for sure."

Florence was just yawning when he mentioned the pitchforks and torches, and she almost choked.

"She was half kidding," he quickly explained. "The torches are ready, but the pitchforks have yet to be delivered."

"Nice shirt," Nate said before Florence could articulate her response to that.

"Yes, Sophie's taste is impeccable indeed." He smiled at him. "Have you noticed the little black roses spread over the fabric that's one shade darker? So… classy."

"Goes well with black pants, doesn't it?"

"Ah, not again. Tell me," Florence said. "Or I'll try to guess, and it won't be good."

"We should sleep now, alright? It's late," Nate said.

"I see." She glanced at him, completely dressed. In the bed. "Well, if anything happens, wake me up. I won't be able to stay awake much longer."

"Sure. Today I saw a hurricane unleashed, I won't hesitate to summon it up again."

She murmured something unintelligible, picked up her laptop and retreated to the bathroom. Blushing looked good on her, he had to admit.

He tried to erase his smile when he turned to Nate, but he didn't see it, he was looking at George near his head. Again with that strange expression. George seemed to withdraw from his eyes, so he cleared his throat, forcing Nate to turn to him again.

"Call Sophie and tell her to call me when she is near the apartment tomorrow. Just in case," he said.

"Already told her. Are you expecting any particular trouble tonight, or do you just want to be prepared?"

"There's no difference."

"Do you need me here?"

"No. Just lower your blinds too, and stay away from windows. I'll call you if something happens."

Nate turned off the episodes and went upstairs, and in the less than ten minutes, after Florence returned and occupied her sofa, silence spread over the room.

Finally.

The conversation about fighting styles had died though he was trying to keep it alive as long as he could. The quarrel about Buck's hair, unfortunately, continued endlessly.

It took one more hour to bring M7 to second position, right behind Supernatural.

He got up, silently, and went to kitchen to make more coffee, turning off all the lights, leaving only one small one on the working table and in the kitchen. The laptop with the surveillance program was on the dining table so he brought it to his bed, to keep an eye on the cameras.

Sitting in the bed was resting, but it was an unnatural position, and he was stiff and slow while moving from bed to bed, checking on them.

Parker was a small ball. Hardison snored on his back. Florence was curled up with Orion. He could hear Nate's pacing the room upstairs, though he tried to be as silent as possible; the only sound that mixed with quiet purring.

Everything under control.

The sound of Nate's steps diminished, covered with a soft whisper of the rain.

He turned off the kitchen light, and put on the new knife holster.

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	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

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It took Eliot several minutes to notice that the cameras were dead. Orion was occupying his attention, galloping up and down the room. He had to remove him from the kitchen counters twice, and that triggered this lunatic ride, accompanied by strange sounds, loud and pissed off. The cat sounded like a dying walrus, and he almost started to worry, having no idea what to do to calm him down before he woke everybody up.

Laser pointers worked only a few minutes, but fortunately, he jumped into one half open bag under the window and started playing with things inside. If he chewed some sensitive electronic equipment…well, that was Hardison's problem.

When he checked the cameras again, black, dead screens met his gaze.

Two minutes, no more, he had been sidetracked with the cat. Hardison had one camera in their hallway, one at the entrance of the building, covering both that and the stairs that led to McRory's, only a few meters away, and one near the back entrance, put there after the slaughterhouse incident. He also controlled two street cameras near the building, just in case. Those two were still working, which meant that the three in their building, all of them on the same power supply, went simultaneously…

In answer to his thoughts, the small light on the working table, the only one he had on, went off, and complete darkness swept over the room.

A good move. Cut the cameras first, give the men time to move closer unnoticed, and then leave the entire building the darkness, giving them the perfect playground.

Of course, it was a bad move at the same time.

He checked the time – the laptops were still working, giving him enough light to see everything. Three a.m.

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"There's no time for that shit, Hardison!"

Eliot's voice, raised in a tense whisper, woke Florence up. She blinked a few times, disorientated in the darkness, then found them all, awake, at the dining table. The four laptops cast an eerie bluish light on their faces.

She dragged herself from the bed, wrapped in a robe over pajamas, and joined them.

"Cameras dead, lights off, unknown number of men around the building," Nate greeted her.

"And because of that 'unknown number', I should go too," Hardison said.

"To do what?" Eliot was putting a jacket on, slowly and very carefully. "To trip on them? No, that's my job. Stay here."

"You're the only one that fights?" Florence asked before thinking. "Or trips?"

"Yes, Ma'am," he drawled. "Muscle for hire. I clear the way." He turned to Hardison again. "If they pass by me, you'll have a chance to do something. I suggest you use the table or chairs to knock them out when they burst through the door, but I'm not sure you're able to lift them up. Too heavy for you, geek boy."

Florence was looking at Hardison at that moment, so she noticed the twitch, even in the dim light. The hacker took one quick breath, and forced his reply to turn into a smile – it was so untypical for him that it captured all her attention.

"Yeah, you're right. A chair's definitely too heavy for me," he said softly.

Eliot also noticed the unusual tone instead of banter, darting the hacker a sharp glance, but he had no time to talk. He just turned and disappeared from the circle of light. They didn't hear doors opening and closing.

Parker went to lock the doors behind him, but Florence looked at Hardison who wore that pained smile for a few more seconds, before he was able to erase it.

"Idiot," the hacker sighed, his voice normal again. "And we're blind, can't see shit. And deaf. Nate, you should've made him use-"

Nate shook his head. "No, he was clear – the earbud would be a distraction, he will use it only if necessary. He needs concentration now. And complete silence. He took a phone, it'll be enough."

Parker returned to the table and sat, without a word.

"What now?" Florence asked.

"Now, we wait," Nate said. She glanced at him, at one half of his face lit by the monitor. He leaned on the table with both hands, and stared at the three dead video feeds with intense concentration, as they were playing thrilling action. Maybe they were, for him – because his frown was deep and tense.

No matter how hard she tried to hear anything, the only thing she heard was the rustle of rain.

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Eliot knew where he would find the first attacker. The back rooms of McRory's Bar weren't easy to navigate through for someone who didn't know the position of the small rooms, storage closets and corridors. The man who turned off the power supply was still there, waiting in the darkness near the switch board. He would stay there until the end, or until his buddies gave him a sign to do something. He wouldn't use any flashlights, or make any moves.

There were four of them when they grabbed them from apartment and took them to the slaughterhouse – it was a quick strike, smash and grab; they weren't hiding.

Tonight, secrecy was the key to their plan. And this wasn't Goon A's plan. Knudsen was behind this.

One man would be in a getaway car, or two in two cars. The men chosen for this would be the best killers, slick and silent, maybe even hired and not a part of the mob.

He passed the stairs and entered the ground level.

Nobody in the building noticed power going off, it was too late for anybody to be awake. The bar was long closed, too. The only people moving around would be his targets, and as long as he was silent, he had the advantage.

They should've been in the building already.

There was no one to be heard.

He acknowledged a tickling of unease – it was a normal sign when things weren't going as they should, when he had to search for an opponent's every possible move – but he directed all sensors inward. There lay the real danger, in his reactions, his concentration.

For now, the darkness didn't trigger anything; his heartbeat was much faster than it should've been, but that was expected – and he was calm. In the present, in the rooms behind the bar, not somewhere else. The most important thing.

Closing his eyes and listening revealed only deep silence. He moved back, near the stairs and now useless elevator, blocking their route to the upper levels.

Something was wrong about their hesitation.

The stillness around him was impenetrable. Not even the rain could be heard here. His heartbeat was a loud sound.

The ringing of his phone sounded like an explosion.

_What the fuck?!_ They should've known better than to- he cursed and killed the ringing, and put the earbud in his ear.

"Are you nuts?!" he breathed.

"Where are you?" Nate's voice was tense and quiet.

"Behind the bar. Look, this isn't the time-"

"Stay there, don't move, just listen," Nate went on with a hurried whisper. "It's Knudsen, not some unknown goon. And Knudsen enjoys the game – he is so sure of his superiority, that he prolongs the hunt. He was doing that the whole time. He gave Inspector Lohman everything, because he knows she can't do anything to him. He gave air pollution monitors to DNR, knowing they are helpless. He agreed to Florence's terms, and let her go to be hunted. He works in _steps_, Eliot."

He scanned the black shadows that surrounded him. "The point?"

"He is bored. He gives his opponents chances, to make the game more interesting – he knows he'll win one way or another. And he is cautious at the same time, always leaving a back door for unexpected turns."

"_Point_, Nate?!"

"His first step was the cameras. The second step was the electricity, a few minutes after. Why, when he could do both at the same time?"

Fuck. The darkness felt thick and heavy now.

"We are not the target, Eliot. You are."

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Florence hunched as her stomach churned.

Hardison let out a muffled curse and got up, but Nate grabbed his hand and kept him in his chair. He gave Eliot a second to reply, but no answer came.

Nate continued his quick talk. "He knew we would be watching, waiting for the attack. He isn't planning on bursting through the door and mass murder, that would make too much noise. He lured you out. If the goons kill you, we'll be without our most dangerous member – if they get you, he'll have a weapon for negotiating. The latter is more to his liking, that draws out the game. Get back."

The silence from the other side was so deep that Florence thought about taking her earbud out and shaking it to see if it worked.

"Eliot?"

"Here, thinking." When the reply finally came, it was normal and calm. "About messages."

Hardison growled, low and frustrated. "Get back. Or I'm coming out."

"What message you want to send Knudsen tonight, Nate?" Eliot ran over Hardison's words.

Much to her surprise, Nate smiled. "Let's confuse him a little, shall we? Let him – them – wonder what the hell happened."

"That can be arranged." Eliot's voice was soft now. "Don't call again, unless it's something critical. I'm taking the earbud out. Stay there. This will take some time."

And that was it, his line on the laptop went red.

"You have no idea what 'ya doing, Nate," Hardison snarled. Florence watched his face set in anger. "He isn't ready for this. Pushing him further won't make it any- let me go with him."

"No, Hardison. In this matter, he's the only one who can decide for himself. And he just did. I trust him."

"I trusted him too, in the slaughterhouse, until I found him almost one fucking second too late! You don't know, he-" Hardison swallowed, his lips in a thin line. "I had to remove a guy pointing a gun at him, _within his reach_, and he just stared, lost – Nate – he did nothing. He would kill him if we weren't there."

"I know," Nate said calmly. "He told me."

"So why are you-"

"Because healing and recovery aren't the same thing, and he is taking over both of them. Slowly," Nate glanced at her and stopped. Florence didn't even try to pretend she wasn't there.

That glance got Hardison together, too, reminding him of her presence, and he just darted a pissed off stare at Nate, and got up. "I'll go upstairs. Through the blinds I can see more than from these windows. They must have someone who's controlling the street. Or more of them – because we don't know how many of them are out there. Remember?"

"I do," Nate nodded. "And I'm sure Eliot does, too."

Hardison let out a low snarl, and strode away. Florence followed him with her eyes; this worry and anger she could understand, but his strange reaction to Eliot's words about too heavy chairs was bugging her. She quickly went through the remaining episodes, trying to find any potentially dangerous chair lifting, or carrying scene – nobody needed another fight between them, and more fuck-you's.

The two of them were strange, she thought, pretending to look at her laptop. Every other sentence was some form of arguing, bitching or just teasing, and at the same time she could feel the deep concern in Hardison. Yet, that pained smile showed- she felt Nate's eyes on her, and she _knew_ he knew what she was thinking about.

"I'll tell you," he said. "But not now, okay?"

She shrank back in her chair, avoiding his eyes, avoiding Parker who was glancing back and forth between them.

There was no way to avoid fear.

She closed the laptop with a click that sounded like a gunshot in the silence of the night, and the darkness closed in a little deeper.

.

.

.

.

He had to preserve his strength. Quick breathing could give him away, and the plan was to move as little as possible.

The man near the power supply was his first target, and Eliot slid through the blackness, making no sound. The guy wasn't in a small room, but in the corridor that connected it to other rooms. And he was good. He was just standing there, leaning on the wall, waiting.

It took almost five minutes for one black, soundless shadow to close in on the other who was listening. Eliot directed his path to him, more feeling his presence than hearing anything – his own breathing was too loud in his ears.

The man shifted only once, and that sound gave him his height. Without any window or source of light, there wasn't any adjusting to the darkness, everything was pitch black.

He slowly raised his left hand, a couple feet away from him, and placed a quick hit to his jaw, near the ear.

The sound of his fall went through the building like an earthquake, shattering the silence.

He took his position by the wall, closed his eyes and listened for the steps, breathing, anything that would show him the position of the others. When he heard nothing, not even after a few minutes, he went into the small chamber and groped until he found rags he could use to tie up the fallen man.

He could drag him with one hand and lock him up, but it would be a waste of strength. He left him lying on the floor, turned his face down, after he cleared all his possessions. Including a gun with a silencer.

He'd already been on his feet too long and sitting down would bring a little more blood into his brain, but the lightheadedness wasn't serious for now. He knew exactly how much time he had before it affected his doings.

He went back into the middle, taking a spot the killers had to pass to get to the stairs, leaned on the wall and melted into the darkness.

He was good at waiting. And darkness.

By now, they knew he was out of the apartment, somewhere between them. The hunt was on.

.

.

.

.

Hardison was silent, which meant it was good, he didn't see anybody on the street.

That, on the other hand, might mean they were all in the building, Florence corrected herself. Which wasn't so good.

She joined Parker at the two windows on the wall opposite of the front door, when sitting became unbearable.

"Careful," Nate said. He thought she needed a warning to stay invisible, great. He was still at the dining table, watching the street cameras. Thinking. Waiting. Minutes stretched into an eternity.

She couldn't peek down through the blinds, at the main entrance and McRory's door, she saw only the other side of the street. Hardison was in a better position upstairs, his line of sight was wider.

Still no sounds, except occasional cars passing on the street.

How much fear she could amass before she broke? She hadn't even recovered from the panic in the garage, and now this, again – the fear was like a tidal wave, slowly growing and rising until it got over her head. She was choking already, her breaths came out in fast, panicked bursts.

Orion jumped out of the bag by her feet, and she barely suppressed a scream.

Parker was watching her from the other window, visible only as a shadow dotted with tiny spots of light through blinds, holding a bowl of popcorn she didn't seem to eat.

"He could use the darkness to attack George again," Parker said with a level voice, following the blurry white spot on the black floor. "I don't want Eliot to be upset."

_Right, George is his main problem now. Sure._ She cut off a laugh, knowing it would come out as a half cry, too near hysteria.

"Why does Orion hate Eliot?" Parker continued.

"No, he likes him," she said with effort. Making small talk with a pounding heart wasn't the easiest thing to do. "He wouldn't come to him, even once, if he didn't."

"Cool." Parker turned to her now. "So, your cat likes Eliot. Do you like him?"

Nate cleared his throat and got up.

_What was that?_ "Yes, Parker, I like him. I like all of you. Why?"

"That's good, we like you too."

Dear Lord, this was worse than an android – she sounded like the Seventh of Nine in the early days. And she looked like her, blond, half of her bluish and hidden.

But Parker was probably scared just like she was. Maybe _she_ needed a talk to divert her thoughts from the silence. Florence suppressed the nervous edge in her voice and forced herself to continue. "Even when you're mad at me?"

"We're not. Nate isn't, not even Eliot."

"Well, he surely fooled me."

Nate came to them, standing between their two windows. "Have you noticed anything?" he asked. "On the street you're both watching?"

Parker completely ignored his presence and his words. "Eliot isn't mad at you. Don't worry. He said you're brilliant."

"What? When?"

"When we talked right before the slaughterhouse." Parker moved the bowl from one hand to the other, glancing at it. Florence waited. "Oh, not brilliant as in 'you're genius' – not that kind of brilliant. He was not talking about your mind, he talked about your shape."

Florence stared at her, out of the corner of her eye noticing Nate's eyes went wide.

"My. Shape," Florence slowly repeated.

"Parker, weren't you been drunk before the slaughterhouse?" Nate asked quickly.

"Yup," Parker grinned. "Round is a shape, right? He said you're round."

"Round."

"Round is nice. He said I'm elongated, you're round. It's all in the cut."

She took a deep, slow breath, and held it.

Parker eyed her, obviously realizing something was strange. "Look, it's complicated to explain to someone who doesn't know… the round shape is nice, in fact the majority of men like that shape, it's common and wide spread… the crown is small, but the pavilion is wide enough to endure any pressure. Round is practical, and tough. Elongated is too fragile sometimes."

Nate produced a strange choking sound, but the blood boiling in her ears muted it almost completely.

"That's… just rude," she managed to whisper. "You can't talk about women like _that_!"

Parker stared at her in utter confusion. "It was the most beautiful thing he had ever said to me," she said.

"There's something wrong with you."

"And that too," Parker beamed. "But don't worry, there isn't anything wrong with _you_ – he said it's not the material that matters, but what you do to it." With that, Parker patted her in a friendly manner on her shoulder, and went back to the kitchen.

.

.

.

.

Now, he could hear them.

The soft rustle of footsteps coming from a few different directions, barely audible, like rats running in ventilation shafts. The sound of fabric rubbing against other fabric, when one of them bent over while sneaking. A metal cling when someone's gun touched the button on his jacket.

With his eyes closed, he drew their positions and trajectories in his mind, still not moving, just waiting.

One by one, they would all come to him. Three. Four with the fallen guy. And the driver, somewhere outside.

He calmed his breathing, erasing all the images that were running through his mind, replacing them with _this_ darkness. Inwardly going through all the rooms and corridors, calculating distances and remembering the obstacles and potential weapons on his way was helping, like an anchor.

The first one that showed up stopped several meters away from him, holding a tiny flashlight that gave out no more light than a laser pointer, just enough to light one step in front of him. He moved before the man could notice him, as a shadow darker than the other shadows. _Don't use the right hand_.

The left one was enough.

People with guns were always slow, unable to quickly adjust their minds from shooting to hitting or defending; once the gun was turned away, posing no threat, they were much easier to knock down than someone who was prepared to use his hands in a fight.

The blows to the thick skull echoed loudly through the silence, and he didn't have time to tie this one up, he just left him lying on the floor, disarming him first.

Two down.

A memory of collecting a different loot clutched around his heart for a moment, and he held his breath, fighting it. He retreated to the stairs again, and this time he sat, clutching the gun he took.

_Easy, you moron. Don't fight it. You'll lose_.

He monitored the dizziness, his breathing, his pulse, just to concentrate on his body and not on his mind.

He noticed the trembling of his hands only when the bullets in the magazine started to clink quietly.

_It could've been worse_. He could be lost and deranged, and under a panic attack. One of them could've been here with him, depending on him and his right reactions.

Yep, this wasn't bad at all. But he didn't have much time – his weakness would only grow stronger with every minute, and he had two more to put down.

He weighed all the chances, all the pros and cons, and decided, pointing the gun toward the ceiling and pulling the trigger. The quiet plops weren't so quiet.

He stood up, throwing the magazine away, waiting for the quick steps that hurried in his direction, drawn by the shooting.

The smell of gunpowder hit his brain, but this time he wasn't on the edge of consciousness like he was in the slaughterhouse, he was able to stop the disorientation, moving quickly to meet the killers.

_Don't use the right hand_.

He didn't.

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.

.

"Speaking of diamonds and brilliants, she stole the Hope diamond two years ago," Nate said when they both returned to the dining table and sat. She turned her laptop on again. "And she put it back. It's insured for 250 million dollars. The most beautiful diamond in the world." His eyes softened for a moment. Florence huffed, knowing he was just trying to divert her attention from fuming. "Do you know what it looks like?" Nate continued lightly. "It's an interesting cut, a cushion antique brilliant with a regular crown, a faceted girdle and extra facets on the pavilion. To simplify it – its shape is round, not elongated."

Oh. Maybe this wasn't just a diversion. She glanced at Parker, reminding herself of how strange she was. She'd had trouble following her train of thought since the beginning, and this was, maybe, just another screw up.

Maybe.

"Tell me about the chairs," she said after a while. Everything was better than waiting helplessly.

"Not 'the chairs,' Florence. Lifting the heavy chairs." She looked up to meet his eyes. Him studying her face was unnerving her, but he smiled then went on. "You said you recorded our coming in the apartment after That Night. Can you play it?"

She blinked, confused. "I have it recorded, yes, I cut off that sequence for eventual evidence, when I thought you killed – but why?"

"Just play it," Nate smiled. A brief, dark smile that didn't reach his eyes.

She found the recording, glancing at Parker. The thief was watching the windows and blinds, and the small dots of street light that penetrated the darkness. Listening.

"Why do you want to watch it now?" she asked Nate, turning the laptop to him, but he stopped her hand.

"No. You watch it. I don't have to."

She had learned by now that doing what Nate said was the cleverest thing to do, yet she couldn't find the logic in his request, not now – until she played the first few seconds.

They had turned off the lights in the corridor, but the open door to the stairs gave off enough light for her motion sensors to catch their movement. She wouldn't recognize Hardison before all these days they spent together, but now she knew who was the tall shadow behind Nate.

And who was carrying Eliot in his arms, holding him tight, with frantic eyes, talking to him though it was clear he couldn't hear him. He had only minutes left, she remembered Sophie's words.

The streak of light when Nate opened the apartment doors revealed, in one clear second, a steady drip of blood down his limp arm, falling to the floor from his fingers. She swallowed the nausea and took a deep breath.

He didn't know how he got into the apartment, that Hardison carried him, she suddenly figured it out – that's why he said that about heavy chairs, and Hardison twitched – this surely wasn't a pleasant memory. He carried him all the way from the van, to the second floor, seemingly easy, as if he wasn't a grown man, but just a child. And Hardison decided not to tell him.

This, definitely, wasn't the wisest thing to watch _now_. She stopped the recording and gave Nate a small nod. His silence was a compliment. He knew she would know what he wanted to explain. That could mean they finally started to answer her questions, and she took that as a good sign.

Yet, she knew why he showed her this now, of all the times, to remind her of the consequences, of real danger and death that was around them. Nate never did things by accident, every word, every smile had some meaning. _Yes, Nate, I know this isn't an episode_, she wanted to scream at him, but her throat was tight and painfully closed. She learned her lesson, she wouldn't make the mistake again.

Hardison came down before she decided if she should say something about it, or not.

"The driver from one parked car went into the building over five minutes ago," he said. "This takes too long, Nate, we should go out."

"That's, actually, a great idea." The quiet voice from the door startled them all, even Parker.

Eliot entered the circle of blue light; he looked no worse than tired, the lines in his face maybe a little deeper. The relief she felt lifted the weight from her shoulders, and she smiled, almost surprised she managed to do that.

"We have five killers, tied up," Eliot continued, leaning on the chair near Nate, very slowly. "You'll call Patrick, or what?"

Nate put one finger on his lips. "Or what. The message isn't signed, yet." His eyes were strangely bright. "Hardison, you know their car?"

"Yep."

"Get a jacket," Nate stood up, looking at them at the table. "We'll put the power on. Stay here and rest. There'll be no more attacks tonight."

"If you say so," Eliot's voice fell to a whisper when he turned around and went to his bed. "Wake me up in three hours."

"Five," Parker said.

"Two."

"Six," she hissed.

"Stop."

"Won't."

"Nate!"

"Go to sleep, Parker," Nate smiled, and then looked back at her. "If you're awake in three hours, do as he said."

She nodded, watching them taking a few things before going out. Parker huffed and turned on her heel, going to her bed.

Eliot stopped by his bed. "Florence."

She quickly joined him. Orion was sleeping right in the middle of the bed, with his head on the pillow. Eliot watched him with earnest confusion.

"He _does_ like you," she said, feeling the smile still on her face.

And to her surprise, he smiled too. Maybe it was the cat, maybe it was just weariness, but that smile transformed his face, softening it. "If this is being liked, I really don't want to see him pissed off." He went closer and gently stroked his fur, just once, as if uncertain what to do and how. Orion started to purr immediately, almost startling him.

He turned to her again. The combination of confused eyes and that soft smile was… very dangerous.

This man knocked out five men just minutes ago, probably with that same hand, she had to remind herself. But it was in vain. She grabbed Orion just to avoid looking at the warmth in his eyes, and turned to walk away.

Nate had one hand on the door knob, but he was still, watching Eliot. She quickly withdrew to the sofa, still enable to erase her own smile, it remained glued on her face.

God, she was so fucking confused. Scared, confused, smiling, all at the same time. _Hello, nervous breakdown, nice to meet you_. Only one thing she knew for certain. She was scared, yes, but the fear eased its grip when he returned safely.

It was _him_ she feared for.

And that terrified her more than anything.

She curled under the blankets with Orion, while guilt and confusion danced an endless loop in her head. Guilt taking the lead.

.


End file.
